


Story and Song

by ArthurtheGatekeeper



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Ace!Jaskier, Canon-Typical Violence, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Empathic Jaskier, Hurt/Comfort, Jaskier | Dandelion Loves Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, M/M, Protective Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Sensory Overload, seriously this whole story is just an excuse to write hurt comfort, tags updated as we go
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-02
Updated: 2020-12-02
Packaged: 2021-03-08 00:07:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 33,723
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26766280
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ArthurtheGatekeeper/pseuds/ArthurtheGatekeeper
Summary: The bard was many things. Annoying. A pain in the ass. Chatty. Eager to learn. Interesting. Warm.An empath.He was pretty sure about that last one. It was really the only thing that made sense.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 378
Kudos: 638





	1. Beginnings

The bard was odd.

It wasn’t just that he decided to follow a Witcher around. Or even that he decided to follow The Butcher of Blaviken. Foolhardy men lived everywhere. He was bound to run into one eventually.

It was that he stayed.

Stayed after he told him to fuck off, after he’d punched him, after they’d been beaten and nearly killed by the elves. He’d stayed. Asked him where they were going next. Like it was a given that he’d stay. Asked for a chance to change reputation.

He chattered at Geralt and he saw the way his eyes lit up each time he got a response. Cataloging what kind of things he responded to.

When he wasn’t talking he was singing, scaring off any game in hunting distance as his voice echoed off the canyon walls.

And when he wasn’t singing or chatting, Geralt realized as he returned to camp that first night to the bard already asleep in Geralt’s bedroll, he hummed. Even in his sleep he hummed.

The bard seemed incapable of silence.

Odder still was how little he minded.

The bard pulled his lute out as they arrived on the edge of town and began playing. It seemed peppy and lighthearted although he wasn’t convinced it was a proper song.

It was the first town since they’d left Posada. Although town was a generous term.

Townsfolk peaked out of their homes and places of business to locate the source of the noise. He tensed. Attention often meant hostility.

The rhythm of the song became clearer and people clapped along.

He glanced around. People were approaching. Getting close. That never ended well.

Their focus seemed to slide off him and onto the brightly colored bard though.

That was. Different.

“Wonderful townsfolk! Might you point us in the direction of any monsters or horrors that plague your lovely abode?” He called out to them.

They murmured and he felt their focus turn to him at last.

“Usually just check the contract board.” He grumbled. The bard tilted his head and blinked at him. Like he didn’t know what that was.

“That’s a Witcher.” “A monster.” “Don’t Witcher’s steal children? Where’s Dane?”

Fuck. They were getting riled up. If he mounted Roach quickly they could jump that fence and loop out to the road after things had calmed down. But he’d have to go before they began throwing things or she might be too riled to ride.

The bard.

Fuck how was he going to get the bard out of here? He made a desperate bid for the boy’s gaze.

His posture was confident. Fool. He was surrounded with nothing but Filavandrel’s fucking lute. They might very well kill him with an ill placed stone.

The blue eyes swung to meet his. Calm. Calculated.

Asking him to wait.

His grip tightened on Roach’s reins but he didn’t mount.

He was trusting a bard, a youth, with their safety.

The bard smiled at him and turned to the crowd.

“My good people let me assuaged your fears!” Assuage? He thought village folk would know a word like assuage? “For the Witcher before you is none other than the White Wolf himself!” Was he seriously going with that title? “Protector of humanity!”

He wasn’t. And they knew it. Roach shuffled nervously. The bard plowed on all the same.

“Why not a week past I witnessed him save Posada from a Devil and an army of elves!” The crowd gasped.

They couldn’t believe this.

The bard continued. Spinning the tale into something grand and entirely fictitious. They had to know it was a pack of lies.

Their focus shifted off of him. Back onto the bard.

He frowned.

“And now my friends, good people of Cobbleshire, he has come to aid you.” What that the name of this tiny town? Fuck it was barely more than a village. How did the bard even know it? This place wasn’t even map worthy. “Speak now! Tell us what darkness plagues your home!”

Fucking bold of the bard to assume they had work.

“The well.” A woman’s voice wobbled out. The man next to her shushed her. He watched them out of the corner of his eyes. Most people got nervous when he looked at them directly. Not the bard. But most people.

“What’s wrong with the well?” The bard asked his voice so soft and concerned. Like he had a genuine stake in their lives.

“Theirs blue people in it! They tried to attack Mama last week!” A boy called from his right.

Drowners then. “How many?” He asked. The town, for it seemed the whole town was here now, startled at his voice.

“Three!” Someone called at the same time as a men rumbled. “Don’t matter. We ain’t got no coin to pay.”

He believed them. A town like this so close to the edge of the world? They had no coin to spare if they had any at all. And they weren’t big enough for a nobleman concerned about their taxes to pay.

If he started taking jobs that didn’t pay he’d never eat again.

But three drowners was barely a fight.

The bard looked back at him. Considered him.

He seemed to come to a decision, turned back to the crowd.

“Witchers must be paid but there are things beside coin. Do you have a place for us to stay? Any food to spare?”

“They could stay in the hunter’s cabin.”

“We could give them the bread we made last night.”

“I really hate walking all the way to the river for water. Maybe we could forage something up?”

“What say you Witcher?” The bard called to him, sensing their acceptance. “A place to rest your head and food for your troubles?”

That would be more than he normally got paid honestly. If they followed through.

He nodded. “Where’s the well?”

“So. What’s a drowner?”

“Necrophage.” He didn’t know why the bard was still following him. He certainly hadn’t asked.

“Wonderful that means nothing to me. What do they look like? What do they do? How are they made? Are they the corpses of drowned men? Is that why they’re called drowners!”

He’d know what they looked like if he didn’t turn around soon. Maybe that would be enough to get him to finally leave.

The elves hadn’t. But the elves had been people. Necrophages were not.

It was odd so many had traveled from the river to a little well. The townsfolk had preferred this to traveling to the stream though, so perhaps the hunting was just better.

The well came into view.

Along with one of the drowners.

Ugly thing, sickly blue with slime and oozing the acrid stench of rot. The bard made a repulsed noise.

He hated drowners. Just this side of too dangerous for most people but not dangerous enough to be worth anything.

“Stay here.” He drew silver. The other two were likely nearby.

He heard the bard shifting back and forth but he stayed put.

So he could follow directions. Good.

He decapitated it before it noticed him. Peering over the edge of the well he spotted the second one climbing out.

He waited until it pulled itself over the edge to run it through and then hauled it out. Best to avoid poisoning their water.

The bard was running towards him. “Geralt!”

“I told you to stay-” The bard looked terrified as he dashed towards him. Diving behind him.

A drowner leaped out of the under bush right for him.

He swung severing its chest in an unpleasant spray of guts.

That was easier than normal.

“Eeeeeww!” The bard complained as he stood and brushed himself off. “Proper monsters those things were. They sounded just awful. Were they magic or something?”

That was an odd question. “They’re too stupid to be proper magic. They’re relics of the conjunction.” The conjunction had brought chaos to the world and with it magic and monsters.

“So they’re chaos born then? That makes sense.” He stepped in a pool of slime they’d made and a retching noise. “Were they really people once?”

“No.” A close enough inspection of their anatomy made that perfectly clear. He had plenty of time to inspect them since their parts were used in potions.

He should probably gather what he could.

The bard was already trying not to vomit. He wouldn’t appreciate him carving up the corpses.

He flicked his knife out and started working. Collected a tongue and brain from the one he’d cleaved and livers from the other two.

If the bard couldn’t handle it better they learned that now.

“Ugh what are you doing? No, no wait I don’t want to know. Whatever you say is going to make me ill. I know it.” He stepped into the woods, likely to get out of range of the stench.

It smelled bloody awful here.

He burned them when he finished. They let off the unpleasant odor of ozone, chaos, on top of the normal stench when they burned.

Definitely relics of the conjunction.

“Geralt?” The bard called from the forest. He didn’t sound panicked. He followed the noise into the woods.

He’d actually gone a fair way. His voice just carried. The drowners were distant even his sensitive nose.

The bard was kneeling between two trees. He looked back at Geralt and shifted to the side.

There was a small collection of bones. Most of a skull. Human. Probably.

He glanced around the area. There were scraps of nice clothing scattered about. A sword nearby. When he shifted it he could detect a whiff of drowner guts on it. Too bad steel wasn’t an effective way to kill necrophages.

They were closer to the river now. They’d likely gotten attacked and drawn the monsters towards the well when they’d fled.

“None of the townsfolk mentioned anyone dying. Wouldn’t that be an important detail?”

“Doubt they knew. Seems like they were a traveler.”

“An awfully unlucky traveler.”

He checked around for any more of their bones but the wildlife had dragged them off it seemed. He burned what they had.

“Hey what- how did you do that? And also why? You just wave your hand and magic?”

“It’s a sign.” There were enough rumors about Witcher magic. He didn’t really want to explain. “Have to dispose of bodies properly or you get wraiths.” The fact they’d decomposed made that very unlikely. But it was still better to be safe.

“Wraiths?”

“Dead souls that don’t pass on.”

“Oh no, I got that part. Are they relics of the conjunction too?”

He shrugged. The elves claimed a lot of things were from the conjunction. Humans, monsters, magic.

It would be easier to count what they claimed wasn’t due to a conjunction.

The flowers, the trees, the birds, the sky, the land, the sea, the listeners. They claimed those.

Of course they claimed the listeners. They claimed the very continent itself was theirs by birthright. So the continent made mortal must have been theirs too.

But everyone claimed they had right to the listener. Own the listener and you owned the continent they said.

An absurd notion. One that started a continent sized war every time one was born.

“That’s a very helpful answer Geralt. Think we could wash off at the well before heading back? You smell like monster and we both smell like Roach.” He made a point of sniffing Geralt and grimacing.

He turned back towards the well.

The bard scampered after him with ever more questions.

“So your signs. What can they do? Besides fire. Which seems very helpful and I no longer feel bad about making you light the firewood at camp. Because it would take me hours to get it started and you can just apparently wave your hands and Bam! Fire.”

The bard would either stick around long enough to learn what his signs did or he’d leave and he wouldn’t.

He didn’t think about which one he’d prefer.

The bard tried a different tactic. “Do any of them let you read minds? Like mages? Or is that rumor as hogwash as the emotionless Witcher one?”

Axii could make people do what he said and tell the truth but he couldn’t read minds.

“What makes you think were not.” He said instead. Emotionless.

The bard looked at him like he’d asked the stupidest question in the world.

“Because you’re not and I’d have to be blind, deaf and brain dead with prejudice to think otherwise. Stop avoiding the question Geralt! Mind reading! Fact or fiction!”

He frowned. He had no idea what he’d done to make him so certain.

There was a tension to his shoulders and a hint of fear’s sour tang in his scent.

“We can’t.” He said.

The tension dropped from him and the scent disappeared under a wave of relief. “Oh? Can mages?”

“Yes.”

“Hmm.” He jogged ahead and then turned around walking backwards. “Well since you’re clearly never going to ask and I know you must be dying to know-”

“I’m not.” He didn’t know what the bard was going to tell him but he really didn’t want to know. He wanted to know as little as possible about the fool with a death wish.

“Liar.” The man swept into a bow. “I am Jaskier, traveling bard and your personal barker. I look forward to many more adventures with you.”

“Fuck off bard.”

“You’re gruff behavior might fool others but it won’t fool me Geralt! I know a good person when I hear one!”

He didn’t want the bard’s name. He didn’t want the bard’s trust. And he definitely didn’t want his company.

He shoved past him. The bard stumbled.

He stomped forward.

The bard’s feet didn’t follow.

Finally. Just him and Roach. It’d be quiet again.

He’d be alone again.

Jaskier’s ambling gait started behind him.

The knot in his gut loosened ever so slightly.

“Well I must say I am thoroughly impressed with the generosity of this town. I mean look at this bounty! Goat milk, cheese, jam, berries and even a loaf of bread! I don’t even think it’s been on the floor. Why I could weep with joy.”

They’d said the hunter was out and wouldn’t be back until late tomorrow. So long as they left in the morning and didn’t take anything they were welcome to use it.

That wouldn’t be a problem. He’d leave at first light.

“Ugh. That’s an interesting smell.” Jaskier scrunched his nose as he stepped inside. Several pelts were drying.

He dropped his things and went to unsaddle Roach.

“Oh Geralt! There’s even a bed!” Jaskier exclaimed. “And blankets! Oh thank heavens I don’t have to use Roach’s tonight!”

That was rude. Roach’s winter blanket was probably the warmest thing he owned. He’d leant it to the bard so he’d stop shivering loudly.

It also made him smell like Roach instead of that obnoxious perfume. Which was nice.

See if he lent it to him again.

“Not that I don’t appreciate not freezing to death, very thoughtful of you and very generous of Roach, but these aren’t covered in horse hair! Perhaps I shall go at least one night before the effects of our quick scrub are undone and I return to smelling more horse than man!”

The quick wash at the well had been nice. He’d been tempted to just go jump in the river but it had been getting dark. He didn’t trust the bard to find the cabin on his own or not eat his reward.

Could have done without the bard’s staring or his odd comment on how _‘it had been a lean season for both of them’_. What did that even mean?

He took the saddle inside. It would be a good chance to oil it.

Jaskier was setting up a fire. Which would have been great. Except that wasn’t their firewood.

“Jaskier that’s not ours. If you want a fire collect your own wood.”

Jaskier spun around from where he knelt in front of the fireplace and stared at him. Startled. His mouth was open but for once he didn’t say anything.

He was still staring. 

“What?” He snapped.

Jaskier jumped and sat up ramrod straight closing his mouth with a click.

“You’ve never called me by name before.”

“I didn’t know your name before.”

“Yes well I was rather hoping you’d ask.”

“I don’t care.”

He frowned. “I don’t think that’s true.”

He dropped the saddle with a thud. “Put the wood back.” He went back outside to brush Roach down.

The bard slipped past him into the woods.

He grit his teeth.

It was sundown. Where did that idiot think he was going?

Not his problem.

He finished brushing her down and tied her up for the night.

He still wasn’t back.

He went inside and began oiling the saddle. It’d been too long since he’d done it.

The fireplace had been emptied and his bedroll had been set up in front of it.

At least tonight the bard wouldn’t complain about sleeping on the ground.

It was well and truly dark and had been for a while by the time he finished with the saddle.

He stood up. The damn bard must have gotten lost. He opened the door.

Jaskier was standing right outside it. Arms full of wood.

“Ah Geralt! How thoughtful of you to open the door for me. I was debating just yelling. If you hadn’t opened the door soon I probably would have. But it is a rather lovely night to disturb with needless yelling, I mean look at those stars!” He stepped past Geralt and dumped the entire load into the fireplace. “There we go! Now you can do your Witcherie hand magic!” He twisted his hands into several absurd shapes.

He knelt down and rearranged the wood pile so the fire would stay lit. When Jaskier turned to go through the food again and he lit the fire.

“Oh no fair! You did that while I wasn’t looking!” He smirked. There was no way he could see it, his back was turned.

The bard tackled him wrapping his arms around his neck. “You did that on purpose!”

He rolled to the side gripped his arms and breaking the hold.

“Ow ow ok sorry! Uncle!”

He sat back up and glared at the boy. Did he think he could take a Witcher in a fight?

He blinked up at him innocently. “Dinner?” He sat up and grabbed the basket setting it between them.

It was good. He was almost full when the last of the bread was done. The bard scrapped the last of the jam out with his fingers and licked them clean, moaning as he did.

“I’d almost forgotten how good food could be when it’s not been seasoned by the bar floor. Yes I think this will be a remarkably beneficial relationship for the both of us Geralt, my dearest Witcher.”

He growled.

“That was remarkably halfhearted Geralt. I shall keep that in mind. A full belly can calm even the fiercest of men. I mean I already knew that but it is reassuring to know even Witchers follow the order of the world.”

Order of the world. He almost rolled his eyes. “Destiny isn’t real bard.” He laid back into his bedroll.

“Oh no destiny is man’s blame for the choices he’s made.” The bard waved him off. The blue in his eyes catching the embers of the fire. “I’m talking about order and chaos. Story and song. The world trends towards chaos. Trees fall and become dirt. Complex to simple. Yet we resist it. We are order resisting the slide to chaos.”

That sounded like the old Elven beliefs. How the world was ordered before the conjunction and then the balance had shifted to chaos; bringing with it magic and monsters.

The bard laid down next to him and ran his hand over the wooden leg of a table. “We resist by giving the world order. Making things. Telling stories. We tell ourselves there is an order to the world and in saying it we make it so.”

The bard did speak Elder. Knew some of their history, even if it was wrong. Perhaps they taught about elven religions wherever he’d trained too.

“It’s the power of bards and story tellers Geralt. Call a man your friend long enough he will become your friend, call someone the protector of humanity they will eventually protect humanity, and if you call a good man a good man he might one day realize it’s true.”

“You’re rambling bard.”

“Perhaps. It is quite late.” The bard rolled onto his side and swung an arm over Geralt’s chest.

“What are you doing?” He growled.

“Going to sleep my friend. I’d much prefer the bed but since you’ve made it clear were not to use the hunter’s effects I suppose we’ve no choice but to share yet again.”

“The bed’s fine. Go use it.”

“If I’m not mistaken you are the one who killed the monsters not I Geralt. If either of us is allowed it it’s you."

He sighed. “The wood is rotten. I’d break it.”

“And I wouldn’t?”

“No.”

“Well. Rude. But that only makes my choice firmer. I think rumors of us breaking the bed in our first town would quickly spiral out of hand. And I prefer my rumors to have some basis in reality. Oh perhaps that can be my next task- inspiring some more beneficial rumors about-“

He covered Jaskier’s mouth. “Be quiet.”

He said something too distorted to be understood. Then he licked Geralt’s hand.

He let him. Lambert had tried that plenty of times and Lambert wasn’t afraid to bite. He wasn’t letting go.

Jaskier glared at him. Then he wiggled right up to Geralt’s chest and made a bed out of him closing his eyes for the night.

What was his problem? People didn’t snuggle up to him. They didn’t try to wrestle him or fight to get him paid. People didn’t trust him.

Jaskier was clearly insane.

But he was also warm.

Jaskier hummed in his sleep and it pressed into Geralt’s ribs.

It was nice. He still smelled like Roach.

As the last of the fire flickered out he fell asleep.


	2. Griffins

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A griffin gets killed in this chapter. Also Geralt get's injured. I probably won't warn you at the top about this level of violence going forward (although I'll warn about more major stuff but this feels well within 'canon typical violence' so.) If you would like more detailed warnings (or a warning about specific things) you can drop it in the comments or message me on tumblr (Abluescarfonwaston) and i'll do my best to warn you ahead of time! Have fun! :D

Tomorrow they’d be in town. A town big enough to ditch the bard in.

Tomorrow.

It was only two hours more and they’d be there.

Neither of them had coin. Which was why he’d stopped early tonight. No coin for an inn. At least out here he had a chance to find some dinner. That was all.

He checked the traps he’d set one last time before heading back, foraging what little he could on the way.

They didn’t have much left in the way of food. Hopefully the town would have work. If not he’d survive. He’d made do with less before. It’d be easier on his own.

The fire pit had been assembled and the wood collected when he made it back. Which was good.

Roach had been unsaddled and brushed. Which he hadn’t given him permission to do.

“Find any food?” Jaskier asked, laying belly down on Geralt’s bedroll.

He dropped most of what he found next to him and swallowed the rest. “Told you not to touch Roach.”

“She was uncomfortable and I was bored. What was I supposed to do? Make harmonies with my stomach while we waited?” He groaned in gratitude as he ate their meager dinner. Maybe by morning one of the traps would have something to eat. “I didn’t do her feet. She wouldn’t pick them up for me.” He admitted.

She was always stubborn about her feet. He loved her for that. He grabbed the pick out of his bag and started the job. “You could have mended your trousers. There’s a kit in that bag.” He waved at it. He’d torn the seam yesterday and complained about it all day.

“I don’t know how to sow.” He moved to her back foot.

“Better learn.” Everyone knew the basics. Bard was just trying to get him to do it for him.

The bard grumbled indistinctly as he dug out the sowing kit. He didn’t have much in the way of thread colors- black dye was the easiest for Witchers to obtain as several monsters produced bile that stained clothing black. If he was neat about it no one would notice.

He finished with her feet before Jaskier yelped out in pain. When he looked over he was sucking his finger, the tiniest whiff of blood in the air.

Jaskier glanced up at him with a blush. “Don’t.” He scolded at the expected rebuke.

“You’ve never sown before?” Jaskier shook his head glaring at the needle and thread. “Take them off so you don’t stab your leg too.”

The blush climbed higher on his face to his ears but he shuffled out of them. He took them from him inspecting the pattern they’d used. Folded them inside out and demonstrated the proper motion for him before handing them back. Nodded when he succeed in copying the motion.

Jaskier beamed at him.

He stood and set about making more swallow on the far side of camp. Several of his potions had been running low for a while now. Not all the ingredients were common around here and were too expensive to purchase.

The bard hummed as they worked, the song growing more complex as he gained confidence in his movements. He set the potion aside to seep and began pulling off the chest piece of his armor to see what he could repair tonight.

The humming stopped.

The bard stood, still in his undershorts and scrambled past him into the woods, picking up his potion bag and dropping it in his lap with a rushed “You should do that later.”

He turned to snap “Where are you going?” Or maybe “Be careful with those!” when the suffocating smell of fear choked him.

The screeching of a monster swooping down on feathered wings.

He rolled out of the way of its claws. A griffin. Blasted it with a poorly timed Aard that knocked it from the air, but not its feet.

He dashed back for the bag. What did he have left? One dose of swallow, he’d need that later, two thunderbolts, the positive effects of this batch didn’t last as long as they were supposed to and negative were worse after- the scavenged Endrega embryos had been half rotten when he’d found the nest, and Petri’s Philter.

He downed a dose of thunderbolt, jumping back as it swiped at him with its talons. His armor shifted dangerously, already half removed.

It burned on the way down but he could feel the surge of power it gave to his muscles as he swung silver, cutting into its front leg hard.

A few good hits and it would retreat. He didn’t need to kill it. Killing it would cause more problems. Besides. Witchers didn’t work for free.

It screeched beak lunging for a bite, managing to catch on the mostly removed shoulder pads and lift him into the air.

That at least forded him an opportunity. He snapped the last buckle loose and ducked free as it tried to shake him by his armor like a toy. Stabbed it in the paw as he landed.

It shrieked its displeasure taking off into the air.

Good. It wouldn’t want to fight in close quarters like this. Between the trees. They didn’t have anything easy to eat- having already made it obvious he was a threat. Easier meals elsewhere. He tightened his chest piece back on, just in case, but it wasn’t likely to turn back. Not unless its nest or mate was threatened.

It dove again.

He downed the Petri’s Philter and knocked it from the sky with the enhanced Aard, pulling harder on the well of chaos inside of him. He needed to convince the damn thing to leave before thunderbolt wore off. If he had to use swallow on top of another dose of thunderbolt-

Well. He was going to leave the bard in the morning anyway.

He got two clean swings in- the third was greedy and he paid for it as it smashed the back of a taloned paw into his back throwing him away. That was going to bruise.

He forced himself back up weaving into the trees. They were too close for the thing to move easily. Roach and Jaskier had already run off. Their campsite might get wrecked but no one would die and he wouldn’t risk making a bigger problem by killing half a mated pair.

It shrieked again and he had to resist the urge to cover his ears. It was circling their camp lashing violently like it was still under attack.

What the fuck? He’d scouted the surrounding area. They couldn’t have been that close to the nest. He’d have smelled the death of its prey if nothing else.

Was it sick- Mad like the dogs whose mouths foamed?

It wasn’t acting normal. That made it extra dangerous.

It yowled like a massive dying cat biting at the base of its tail and wings like it wanted to tear them off before tearing through the woods.

Probably was sick then.

Heading towards Jaskier.

He dashed after it. Damnit he wished he still had that werewolf decoction- chasing after a griffin on foot wasn’t easy. Even if it had to weave between the trees.

Course he’d die from the overdose if he drank that one too. He’d used the last of his white honey weeks ago.

Hopefully Jaskier had managed to hide himself well and the thing was tracking an old deer trail- not a bard trail.

Hope that was dashed as the griffin cleared the top of a hill and Jaskier screamed out.

He threw the hybrid into a tree with Aard again and slashed at its ribs. Petri’s was still going strong but Thunderbolt was already fading. It didn’t cut as deep as the earlier blows.

A claw raked against his armor and fresh blood welled in its wake. Not deep enough to be deadly. Probably. Jaskier was caught at the bottom of the hill against the wall of a massive thicket. Trapped.

Distantly he heard the bard scream his name.

He smashed the butt of his blade against its head- stunning it just long enough to rip the top off thunderbolt and down the remaining.

His muscles screamed with adrenaline and his vessels screamed in pain.

Jaskier just screamed as he drove his blade into its chest piercing something vital.

Its claws raked the ground more and more slowly as death settled over it. Its shrieks quieting into pained panting into nothing at all.

The forested hill was silent except for his labored breathing and Jaskier’s sobbing cries.

Could he get away without swallow? If he could get away with swallow the toxitiy would just make him feel ill but manageably ill. His veins wouldn’t blacken with poison and his face wouldn’t go ashen pale and maybe just maybe the bard would leave only horrified and terrified instead of disgusted. Sickened.

Would leave without fully realizing he’d traveled with a monster.

Blood ran hot down his chest. Pain beginning to make itself known again. His back throbbing with a half formed bruise.

He pulled the blade out catching the full body flinch the noise caused in the bard. Wiped it down swiftly.

He needed swallow. The toxicity would kill him far slower than the blood loss.

He uncorked the vial as the bard wobbled towards him, pale and drenched in tears. “Don’t.” He plead.

He wasn’t sure what he was asking for. Don’t come closer? Don’t be afraid? Don’t run away?

Don’t look?

He forced a dose down.

Tomorrow it would all have been over anyway. What difference did a few hours make?

The potions burned in every vein, artery and capillary. Swallow staunching the bleeding as the concentration of toxins built up in his cells. Killing him. Just more slowly.

“Oh gods oh gods its dead. Fuck. Fuck its dead oh gods I am so sorry I’m so sorry.” Jaskier babbled, a hand petting its cooling mane collapsing next to him. “I’m so fucking sorry.”

His hand reached out to comfort him. The veins were pulsing black.

He lowered his hand.

Jaskier buried his face it in its coarse mane murmuring apologies to the beast that had tried to kill him. “It was sick.” He tried to console.

“And how do you know that!” He snapped turning to him. Froze.

What difference did it make? Today or tomorrow. Either way the bard was gone.

“Oh fuck.” He wasn’t running yet but freezing was a fairly common fear response as well. He could smell the way fresh fear rolled off him. “Griffins are poisonous?”

His eyes ticked over to Jaskier’s pale face. His shaking hands reaching up towards his face. He stepped back.

“What are you doing?” He asked, throat rough from the potions.

“You’re hurt! And black oh gods what do griffins do to make you look like this? Do you have an elixir or something- oh fuck your bleeding too oh gods bandages we need bandages where’s Roach oh gods.” Jaskier stepped forward hands hovering over the talon marks.

He gently pushed the hands away. Correcting the fool’s belief he was obligated to touch. “That’s the potions.” He’d almost said it’s not poison but that would have been a lie. Potions were poisons. Just ones his body could handle in small enough doses. He turned and started walking back to camp.

This was. Not great. The blood loss would make today miserable and the potions would make tomorrow miserable. He’d survive long enough for the potions to absorb in his gut and then he’d get to enjoy reliving a fraction of the pain from the trials.

If he survived he’d be stuck copper less, without food, in the open. An easy target for anything; bandits, wolves, the griffins other half.

This wasn’t going to be a very enjoyable few days.

His foot caught on a root and he lurched forward. He’d have caught himself. He would have. But Jaskier grabbed him and tucked himself under his arm. Steadying him as they lurched back to camp.

He shoved him off, digging for the scraps of clothing that’d become so shredded they could only be used for patching holes. Holes in himself included.

“Can I help?” The bard started to ask when he cut him off with a sharp “No.”

The bard drew back, quickly stepping into his discarded trousers. “Right then. I’ll. Go find Roach then.” He wandered blindly into the woods.

Good.

Finally.

The bard was gone. He’d taken the chance to get away.

Except.

Except his lute was still here, he realized, as he finished bandaging the injury.

Well. Maybe the bandits would give him a good deal on it after they raided the camp.

“Geralt. Geralt wake your sorry ass up. I can’t move you on my own. Don’t make me try.”

He blinked awake. Cold. Hungry. Exhausted.

In pain.

He could fix one of those things.

The well of chaos burned brighter in his gut and then at least he wasn’t shivering.

The bard was still here. Shaking his shoulder.

“Geralt come on. You can ride right?” The lighting said it was almost dusk now. Why was the bard still here? “If I have to tie you to Roach things are going to get a lot more uncomfortable for everyone involved, I assure you.”

“Ride? Why would I-“ He grit his teeth as the first of the cramps started. He breathed through it. They weren’t bad. Yet. He forced his eyes open surveying the camp. Disassembled. Roach present and prepped to depart. “The fuck?” He grit out having rather lost the chain of thought.

“Yes. Exactly how I feel. The fuck are you getting worse. Geralt.” Jaskier grabbed his face forcing him to look at him. “Unless you have a very good reason why we shouldn’t get our asses into an inn with walls and beds and access to healers for your steadily worsening condition then you are going to haul yourself up and onto the damn horse. Do you understand? You. Roach. Now.”

He swatted at Jaskier as he tried to haul him up. “No coin.” Simple and accurate.

“Leave that to me. Now help me out here!” Jaskier tucked himself under his arm and scrambled to get his footing, only succeeding in shoving them over.

He sighed and stood. Made it over to Roach before the cramping ache folded him back over.

The bard was there. Rubbing at his back as he breathed through the pain.

He was still there.

He climbed on Roach. Petting her and apologizing when he doubled over on her neck. Trusting the bard as he led them onward into the fading light.

The room smelled like dust.

Distantly he heard people laughing and dancing downstairs to bright music.

He was in his bedroll atop a few old blankets and furs.

His gut clenched and he curled onto his side to wait it out. That was all that could be done. Wait it out. Don’t reopen the scabs. Breathe. Breathe.

It was miserable.

The song ended, lute fading out.

Jaskier entered, pushing through the door on the floor, a plate and pitcher carefully balanced in his hands as he climbed into the room.

“No proper bed I’m afraid but I’ve certainly had worse accommodations. Very kind of the barkeep to lend us their attic don’t you agree? I’d prefer the kitchen next to the stove personally where its nice and warm but that’s neither here nor there. A few places have let me sleep under the bar when the weather got unpleasant but attics. Attics are nice and quiet which I’m certain you prefer.” He put the plate and drink down next to him on the bedroll.

Eating sounded terrible. It would help. But.

He watched Jaskier who’d leaned back on one of the storage chests and had continued his monologue. Fingers playing with the loose thread of his half mended trousers.

“If theirs’s something I can do you really do need to speak up because I’ve already had to deal with one death today and I’m honestly not sure I could handle you going the way of the griffin- poor thing- so if you could eat or drink or tell me what the hell I’m supposed to do to keep you alive that would be appreciated because - and this might surprise you to know since I am remarkably talented in a great many things- I don’t actually know what the hell I’m supposed to be doing or how to patch you up or deal with this whole black vein problem and-“

“Jaskier.” His blue eyes turned to him. Tears welling as he fiddled. Undoing the stitching. “Did you eat?”

The food looked good. Better than what he’d had in a long time. Cooked. Seasoned. Warm.

Payment for the bard. Not the Witcher.

“What? Why- yes. This is yours Geralt.” He shoved the plate closer. “I had a meal and a half off the patrons’ plates. One morsel at a time. This is yours.”

He considered him. Jaskier _did_ smell like food. He sat up and began the arduous task of eating.

Jaskier watched him. Silent. Fiddling with the thread.

“I don’t need a nursemaid.” He growled. His skin itched under the unwavering focus. “Go back to your audience.”

His face flinched into a smile. “Right then. Be back when the tavern closes then.” He stood and climbed down the ladder.

He sniffed after the bard trying to sort out the reaction.

Whatever it was wasn’t obvious.

He finished the meal and curled back up. Focusing on the melodies drifting up from the bar as the pain flared and ebbed long into the night.

It was helpful. Having something to focus on beyond the pain.

His gut woke him and he forced himself down the ladder to the facilities. The bar quiet and dark.

As he returned quiet humming from the inn reminded him he’d been alone in the attic.

He peered over the counter spying the bard curled in the corner around his lute humming to himself.

“What are you doing?”

He jumped and flinched as he banged against the wood. Rattling the bottles and mugs on the counter.

“Ger-” He grimaced at how loud his voice was in the stillness of the bar. “Geralt. What are you doing up? You look.” He squinted at him in the dark. “Still not great.”

“Privy.”

“Ah.” He blinked up at him. Still curled around the lute. Alcohol heavy on his breath. He wasn’t drunk but he’d clearly tried to get there. “Do. You need help getting back upstairs?”

“No.”

He waited for an answer to his question but Jaskier just stared at him confusion rolling of in increasing waves along with a sour smell, like bad ale, he recognized on Jaskier but couldn’t place.

“What are you doing?” He repeated.

He tilted his head before looking down at himself. “Sleeping?” His fingers stroking the thin wood. “Well trying to- I’m not great about sleeping alone honestly especially when it’s so loud and there was this lovely brunette with the sweetest smile that I almost went home with but then I worried you’d die on me in the night.”

He frowned as Jaskier curled tighter around the lute.

“Which I then realized was dumb because I’m not your nursemaid- obviously a nursemaid would actually know how to help- but the moment had passed and no one else was really interested so I figured why not get drunk instead but unfortunately I didn’t quite manage that either so.”

Jaskier stopped and looked back up at him.

He waited. He’d smelled it during the incident with the elves but not the necrophages or the griffin. Not fear.

Jaskier traced the design of the lute. Staring at the counter.

“Well I can get a bit clingy at night,” An understatement. “And I knew if I went upstairs I would definitely end up siding up next to you,” Plastered over him more like it. “Which given.” He waved at Geralt. “I thought you might not appreciate.”

Oh.

He knew what that scent was. The scent he’d tried to bury with drink.

“You’re hurt.” He stated.

Jaskier whipped his head around. “You’re hurt.”

That was also true. He rounded the counter and breathed deeper. There wasn’t blood but that didn’t mean much.

They didn’t have coin. How had the bard convinced them to let them sleep here?

“Where are you hurt?” The injury wasn’t obvious.

The sour scent of pain was.

“I’m not hurt Geralt. I mean I got a few scrapes running through the woods without pants but you very valiantly protected me. I’m fine.” Jaskier uncurled and cupped his face in his cool hand. “Does this,” he stroked the greyness of his cheek, “make you hallucinate? Cause I’d very much appreciate knowing that now.”

He moved away from the hand. A muscle under Jaskier’s eye twitched.

“You’re in pain.” If he had done something truly stupid to get the room and meal then- “I can smell it.” He cut off Jaskier’s denials.

“Oh.” His hand fell back to the lute. “I just have a headache. I’m fine.”

The intensity of the smell didn’t imply he was.

He closed his eyes, massaging his forehead. “It’s. Been a bit of a day. And it’s loud here. I’ll be fine.”

He listened to the soft settling of floorboards and distant snoring of the owners.

“It was loud here.” Jaskier corrected eventually.

“Bedtime.” He sighed. Standing from the crouch. The cramping was returning and he didn’t want to get stuck down here until they eased. “Come on.”

Jaskier diligently followed, joy blossoming off him.

He laid down as the worse of it hit. Curling up in the dusty furs to ride out the next few hours.

“Do you have any painkillers?” Jaskier asked as he wrapped himself in Roach’s blanket again.

“Not that wouldn’t kill you.”

“For you I meant.”

He was tempted. “No.” They’d only make it worse in the long run. Adding toxicity for a few hours of relief.

“That’s unfortunate.” He settled onto the furs behind him. “Should probably invest in some of those.”

He’d rather invest in white honey and skip the whole ordeal entirely.

The pain ebbed. Jaskier laid stiffly on his back behind him.

“You don’t have to stay.”

Just because he didn’t smell like fear didn’t mean he wasn’t afraid. Didn’t mean he wanted to be here.

Tonight or tomorrow. What difference did it make?

“I know.” He shuffled closer. His shoulder pressing lightly into his back. “I want to.”

That didn’t make any sense. Why the fuck would he want-

Pain seized him.

“Geralt?” There was a warm hand on his shoulder. It was something to focus on aside from the pain. “Can I- well this is going to sound odd- can I give you a massage?”

He growled.

“You’re cramping up right? From the. Potions.” He grit his teeth and nodded. “It helped when my- well some of my friends experience rather unpleasant cramping and they said it helped. If it doesn’t help I’ll stop.”

He didn’t _need_ help. Which he was going to say.

And then the pain wrenched his guts tighter.

He nodded, unable to speak around the clench of his jaw. Barely able to breathe around the pain.

Warm hands kneaded and soothed the tightness in the small of his back.

It didn’t help much. It couldn’t help the small seeping of blood reopened from the talon marks. Couldn’t solve the deep clench of his guts as they slowly cleared the poison from his body.

But it helped a little.

The tiny spark of relief shouldn’t have- he shouldn’t want this. He didn’t need this.

The tiny spark of relief filled his chest with something lovely and terrible and he almost pulled away from him just to escape it.

Jaskier’s head pressed between his shoulder blades with a barely there “Thank you.”

He was helping Geralt. Jaskier didn’t need to thank him.

A confused sound came from someone and he didn’t try to figure out who.

“This helps. With the headache.”

Which didn’t make any sense. But the sour smell was less pungent the next time he could breathe deeply.

So it was probably the truth.

If it was helping Jaskier with his pain for whatever reason then. Then it was okay to let him.

It was okay to lean in.

The pain ebbed enough that he might be able to sleep soon. Jaskier’s hands hand grown slow and he’d wiggled his way up against his back. A hand still lazily rubbing the firmness of his abdominals through his shirt.

It was okay to lean in.

Jaskier had known the griffin was coming. Known about the drowner at the well too. Before he had.

Jaskier disassembled the trap as he’d demonstrated with impressive dexterity. He probably shouldn’t have been impressed with that. He played a lute after all. Finger dexterity was part of his job.

He could ask how the bard knew. It would be simple to ask. He’d probably be ecstatic Geralt was showing any interest in him at all.

Jaskier wrapped up the trap carefully and smiled at him.

He moved to the next one.

Hopefully one of these traps would have something in it or they’d have to manage on whatever he could get for chewed griffin parts. The feathers and guts might sell for something in a town this size. But it would mean chasing off any predators that had already claimed the carcass which he wasn’t keen on.

“Do you have to hum?” He grumbled. It sounded halfhearted to even his ears. “You’ll scare away the prey.”

“Yep!” Came the overly cheery response. “Besides were checking traps not hunting. If anything we want to scare away the wildlife! Mister Bear please vacate the premises! Thank you!” He called randomly into the forest.

He knew about the monsters before he had. He’d known Cobbleshire had a monster problem. He’d made no such bid when they pasted through the town before this. They’d had no work for him and he’d known that.

He could ask. Jaskier would almost certainly tell him. He was likely just waiting. Hoping he would ask. Like he’d hoped Geralt would ask for his name.

The trap had caught. He flicked a knife out and offered it to Jaskier.

He paled and stepped back. Shaking his head. “No- no thank you.”

He frowned. “It’s a useful skill.” Like mending cloths, cooking, laundry, foraging. All things the bard had shown a willingness to learn at very least.

Nausea colored his face. He turned his back to the scene and stepped away. “So is farming but you don’t see me picking up a hoe.”

He shrugged and killed it quickly. Began the field dressing. Ignoring the gagging flinch Jaskier made as it died. “I think it’s rather obvious what kind of hoe you prefer.”

He made a delighted noise. “Oh my- you just- did you just make a joke? You have humor! And here I thought you were going to be the straight man in our little two man show. Ah. What a delight.”

He could ask right now. _How did you know about the griffin? You knew before I did._ Only by a few seconds but that was a few seconds more than a human’s dull senses should have had on him.

He leaned against a tree and began fiddling with his lute. A few chords here and there. It reminded him of something.

He could ask. He could get an answer. Put this little mystery to bed and ditch the bard in the morning.

He didn’t want to.

The bard wasn’t dangerous. He couldn’t kill a deer. Cried over a griffin that tried to kill them. Talked about the world like it was a giant fairytale full of beauty where the power of story could actually change the world.

The shine in his eyes when he learned something new. Saw something knew. Met someone different. It called out to a part of him he thought he’d buried decades ago.

He wouldn’t ask. Not because there was a chance the bard was terrified of his secret getting out and might leave if he pressed - Although he wondered why he was so scared of mind reading and mages but had no fear of signs and Witchers. That was just a clue to add to the pile. – but because figuring it out would be more entertaining.

He was bored. The bard wasn’t a threat. He was a little mystery to untangle.

It was his job to untangle mysteries. He was damn good at it.

So he’d let him stay. Just a little longer. Until he could puzzle it out.

He’d tolerate the bard’s antics for a little longer. Just because he was bored.

He paused. He didn’t recognize the song but he knew what it reminded him of now.

A deer. Bounding through a clearing. It sounded like a deer with its tail flicking away.

It was just that the bard was interesting. That was the only reason he let him stay.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoyed chapter 2! I have. uuuuh 40k more written (not all of which will actually make it into the story. I mean 10k of that is Jaskier pov and probably won't be included at all) but I'm still trying to figure out which part should come Next in the story. And thank you for reading!!!!!!


	3. Baths and Headaches

The headache that had troubled the bard that first night in town often returned. He grew weary and exhausted with his pain whenever they spent too long within a cities walls.

Perhaps it should have irritated him. It did irritate him. But then Jaskier would dig his nails into the soft space behind his ears, trying to block out the noise, and all he could see was a youngling. A child that hadn’t learned how to focus and manage the overwhelming input of the world.

He’d seen so many of the children who survive the trials do that. He had the same scars behind his ears. He knew they’d all found ways to dull that pain. Dull their senses.

The way Jaskier drank said he’d found one of them.

Tomorrow they were leaving the city. There was, perhaps, more work to be found but he’d collected enough information on several they didn’t need to stay.

He wished they left last night. Jaskier had tried to drown himself in alcohol and Geralt had nearly carried him back to the inn. He’d only barely finished his set tonight. Geralt had to haul the boy away before he gave into the crowds call for another song or drowned himself in a cask of ale.

He smelled like pain and fear and the moment Geralt hauled him out of sight of the crowd he’d broken down in tears covering his ears with all the force his shaking hands could muster.

It was late, they’d paid for the room, Roach was warm in the stables and it would take him as long to pack their things and ride them into the night as it would take to run a bath. So, he decided, that he would run a bath instead.

The boy, and in this moment it was clear he was just a boy, had curled up in the corner of the room. He sang softly to himself still trying to silence the outside world with his hands.

Geralt would offer earplugs but he already had a pair in.

He had claimed he had excellent hearing.

When the bath was finally ready he moved silently over. Knelt in front of him until Jaskier recognized him.

“Ran a bath.”

Jaskier tilted his head slightly, eyes squinted in pain. Comprehension missing from his normally quick mind.

“Your senses are overloaded.” Jaskier’s eyes fizzled out of focus for a moment and then he heard a bar fight break out below them. “Submerging yourself helps mute the world.”

He saw a flicker of recognition before he squeezed his eyes shut again. The fight rattled on below with several shrieks.

Jaskier whimpered, the humming in his chest growing louder. Geralt waited unmoving not wanting to add to the sensory assault.

He heard the men get thrown out. The barmaid yelling at how they weren’t welcome back. The men’s drunken grumbling as they meandered away. Only then did Jaskier’s eyes focus.

He motioned to the bath. He could carry Jaskier over if necessary but he’d rather avoid making the situation worse with unwelcome touch.

Jaskier shock his head minutely. He licked his lips and hummed in an odd tone “Doesn’t work.”

His heart dropped. The bard had tried it before. If he’d known then he’d have collected their things and ridden out. They still could he supposed. If that was the only option.

“How can I help?” It took Jaskier a few seconds to process the question.

“You want to help?” His disbelieving tone still oddly musical, not inflecting quite correctly.

He thought of those first few years after the trials. How loud and overwhelming the world had been. How they’d all found ways to cope and few of them had been good. How he wished someone had helped him.

He nodded.

Jaskier hesitated. “Can you...” He squeezed his eyes shut again. “Take a bath?”

He blinked.

Why would him taking a bath help Jaskier?

“I just. Need something good to focus on. And you.” He took a break to breathe through the pain. “Love baths.”

He did. Feeling clean was one of the easiest ways to avoid an overload for him. Submerging himself one of the first effective strategies he’d found for managing them that hadn’t involved chemicals.

He didn’t understand why that would help Jaskier though.

But that didn’t matter. Only that it did.

He went over to the bath and shucking clothes. He’d enjoy this. Though he’d prefer not to have the bard miserable in the corner while he did it.

He climbed in. It was still hot. He resisted the urge to groan as the heat seeped into his muscles. It was nice.

After a few minutes he heard Jaskier stand up and move to the vanity that separated them.

“Can I help? Wash your hair or… something.” His head pressed against the vanity like he hoped the pressure might relieve the pain behind his eyes.

He didn’t understand how any of this helped Jaskier.

But he had come out of the corner. So clearly it did.

He nodded his consent. He realized Jaskier likely hadn’t seen it but before he could vocalize it the boy entered and began sorting through soaps. Perhaps he’d seen the motion through the screen.

He opened the three he had, one provided by the inn and two Jaskier had obtained during their travels taken- stolen- from bathhouses they’d stopped at, and selected the one Geralt thought was least offensive. Not that he’d said anything.

“Dunk” The bard requested as he moved the stool behind him.

This situation had him more than a little nervous. The bard was harmless but trusting someone at his back while he was naked was difficult. He submerged himself welcoming the way the world muted around him.

When he surfaced the bard didn’t move to touch him as he’d expected. He glanced back and the man looked somewhat ill.

“What?”

He stood and started to leave. “Never mind. I’m going to get a drink.”

“Jaskier.” He growled. He paused his retreat.

He leaned against the vanity. “You’re uncomfortable. It doesn’t help if you’re uncomfortable.”

He considered that. He knew the bard wasn’t a threat. It would just take a bit for him to remember that. “Wash my hair.” He ordered. “It’s fine.”

It had just been a long time since someone had touched him outside of their duties.

“It’s fine.” He repeated to the bard’s still form.

“If you’re sure.” He returned to the tub, sitting instead on the lip of the wall at his side.

“I am.”

He reached out. Fingers running through the messy knots in his hair. Pulling and working them free from the tips upward with a comb he’d pulled from his pocket. Skillfully. Without pain.

“You’ve done this before.”

“Brushed hair? Yes Geralt. I’m not bald I’ll have you know.”

“Long hair.” Starting from the tips instead of the roots as most people were inclined to do. He’d done it for years. Accepting the occasional knot he’d ripped out as a cost of its length before a generous attendant had corrected him.

He hummed a non-answer that continued into a quiet melody.

He leaned back in the bath and relaxed as Jaskier worked his hair clean.

Too soon he was done. “Bedtime white wolf.” He said with a pat to his shoulder.

The sour scent had faded. Not gone but eased. “Headache’s better?” He confirmed as he stood, toweling off.

Jaskier rubbed his forehead with one hand as he put away the toiletries. “More manageable. It’s not worth your worry.” He dismissed as he readied himself for bed, climbing in. “Haven’t you a bruxa to hunt in the morn?”

“I do.” He agreed slipping under the covers. Jaskier made little effort to conceal his plan to cuddle him in the night. As he did every night really. Tucking himself neatly in his side. “There are treatments." Ones more targeted for headaches than his current drug of choice at least.

Jaskier’s hand came up to rest over his heart and his leg slung over his knee. His skin pleasantly cool to the touch. “I’ve only found the one.”

“Which is?”

“Sleep.” He said. But it didn’t sound like an answer. It sounded like a dismissal. “Thank you for the bath.”

“Thought it would help.” Disappointing that it hadn’t.

“It did. You are far more pleasant to sleep next to now.”

“Is that all you need? A willing bedmate?”

“It certainly helps.” He muttered into his chest, asleep a moment later.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes i write these scenes and the editor in me goes 'hey so what was the narrative point of this scene?' and sometimes the answer is 'i like writing sensory overloads and bathtime and cuddles' and sometimes i'm like 'oh no you see this shows us x about the characters'. I'm still not sure which this scene falls under. But i don't have an editor reading through a completed manuscript going 'actually i think you can combine these scenes for the same effect' so! Enjoy some sequences that are perhaps supercilious but that i didn't have the heart to remove. WRITING.


	4. Neverland and Birthdays

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No major warnings for this chapter aside from an offscreen 'Geralt is refused service' section and we've got some kids living in the woods by themselves. Have fun!!!!

“Jaskier.” The oblivious bard turned back to him after a moment, stopping his consistent monologue, and cocked his head. “The inn?” He motioned to it.

His easy smile turned into a foul snarl as he looked at the nicely painted building and cheerful atmosphere. “We are not staying _there_.” He wrinkled his nose as if the place smelled wretched.

He sniffed but the place didn’t smell any worse than the rest of the town. He doubted this place had two inns. “Why not?”

Jaskier squawked indignantly. “Because its! It’s! I mean look at it!”

He did. It looked like an inn.

“You’re being ridiculous.” Which was nothing new for the bard. He moved to the door.

“They won’t give us a room!”

“We have coin.” They might charge him more- they _would_ charge him more. _Cleaning fees_ some places said. Some just did it because they could. But coin was coin and few places would turn it down. “They’ll give us a room.”

When he hauled Jaskier from the inn not ten minutes later, spitting mad and yelling, he was more mortified than he’d been in years.

He’d been turned away before. He accepted it with a flat stare and didn’t let it bother him. If there prejudices lost them his business that was on them.

But Jaskier had seen it. Jaskier had jumped to his defense.

It was going to happen eventually. Jaskier knew how people reacted to him, not even counting the Butcher aspect. He’d have seen it eventually. It was just like any other unappealing aspect of his life. Like monster guts in his hair or carving up necrophage corpses or occasionally being chased from towns with rocks.

He knew Jaskier would have witnessed this eventually. But. But he hadn’t wanted him to.

Jaskier shook free of his grip and continued his angry tirade stomping down the street. “How dare they! Worthless flea infested blood leaches with no sense of-“

He tuned him back out. Following after him.

He didn’t know why he was surprised they’d turned him away. This happened often enough it had stopped surprising him. It shouldn’t have surprised him.

“Why I ought to-“

“Leave it.” He ordered. “It’s fine.”

That had the bard turning on him. Face read with sputtering rage. “They treated you like a monster! It’s not okay! It’s not fine! Not in the least and how- how dare you _lie_ to me and pretend that it is Geralt! I’ll not stand for this-“

“Jaskier.” He cut him off before he could continue. “Stop.”

His hands were shaking fists at his side. His lips a thin line.

“If they didn’t want my coin that’s their loss.” He reminded him calmly. “It’s fine.”

Jaskier searched his face. Which he knew wouldn’t give away anything.

Not that his unreadable face had stopped Jaskier before. The implications concerned him.

“It is not _fine_. You’re a person and they should treat you like one I mean,” He raised his hands to wave dramatically. “Obviously it’s their loss and I told you they didn’t deserve our business,” He continued turning and walking down the road again. Turning down one of the side roads.

He frowned but followed after.

_You’re a person._

He watched Jaskier walk ahead. His right arm holding the strap of his lute case. Teasing the leather strap between his fingers. He couldn’t see Jaskier doing that but he knew he was. His other arm swung back and forth when it wasn’t flung around trying to collide with whatever point Jaskier was making.

_You’re a person and they should treat you like one._

He’d gotten used to that he realized. To Jaskier treating him like a person and not a Witcher. A mutant.

Jaskier started singing that damn song.

“Witcher!” A woman called from behind them. He turned back to her ignoring the smug look the bard was sending him. “I got work for you!”

The smugness felt undeserved since work rarely paned out so neatly.

“The wolves take one chicken at a time?” He prodded. She blinked at him. Turning away from Jaskier and his easy smile as if she’d forgotten he was there at all.

“Yes. Always one at a time.” She confirmed.

“Hm.” He jumped the fence following the tracks. They seemed oddly spaced out.

The tracks crossed the stream and weren’t present on the other side. But the scent was.

Children. Three of them. Wolf paws tied to their feet to hide their tracks. Orphans.

“Once we have all the hens well go deep in the woods! Petey says we’s gonna hunt, wear animal hides, sew a tent outta leaves.”

“And never grow up!” Said the biggest one. Which wasn’t saying much.

“Hm. Last bit’s most likely.” He looked them over again. “Good luck I guess. And watch out for yourselves.”

He returned to a rather impassioned lecture on the merits of different chicken feeds. Which sounded incredibly boring.

Jaskier’s eyes glittered from where he perched on her fence urging her on. Like she was telling him some great and fantastical tale full of magic and wonder.

Irritation flashed in his chest before he could stamp it down.

The merits of chicken feed did not deserve the same look of devotion and excitement as his tales about monsters and curses.

What a stupid thing to be annoyed by. If the bard cared more about Chicken feed than monsters he could try to write a song about that instead.

Jaskier looked over at him with that same smug look and raised a pointed eyebrow. “Find our _wolves_ , mister wolf?” He said like he knew perfectly well there were no wolves.

“No wolves. Found a group of kids in the woods. They’re the ones stealing your hens.” He explained.

“Someone should take them in.” Jaskier pointed out as he concluded.

“And what good will that do me?” She snapped. “They might not steal my hens but I’ll still be feeding them!”

They said nothing.

She crossed her arms and looked away. “I’ll ask around if any folks are willing to take a tyke in but I’m not promising anything. I don’t owe you or them that!”

“Didn’t say you did.”

“But you do owe Geralt for finding the cause of your little wolf problem.” She tensed. Ready to argue against them and all the _help_ they’d been. “We could use a place to stay for the night. Seem fair?”

Their bedrolls laid out in front of the fire. Jaskier slipped a bottle of alcohol from his doublet and passed it to him.

“Did you steal this?” He hissed, sparing a nervous glance at the closed bedroom door.

“No!” He lied. “Well yes but not from her. From the inn. And after what they put us through I will not be made to feel bad about it.”

He tried to impress a sense of disapproval like Vesemir might. Jaskier remained unmoved.

He uncorked the bottle and took a swig before passing it back.

“Do you think someone will take them in?”

“If not they said they’d go into the woods and never grow up.”

Jaskier grimaced. Examined the label. “Sounds awful.”

“Hm.” Dying in the woods wasn’t high on his list either.

“I’m sure someone will take them in. I’ve said it so it must be true!” Like that had anything to do with what would actually happen. “Speak the future you want into being!” He toasted himself with the bottle and took a swig.

He took it from him and shook his head.

“And for all the children who _do_ go into the woods well.” He screwed his face up and glared into the fire. “They. They go to Neverland. Where they never grow up and get to stay children forever. Playing and dancing and singing. Forever.”

“Careful. People might start looking for Neverland if you tell that story.” He warned even as his lips tugged upward. He drank a bit more.

“I can’t imagine why.” Jaskier’s eyes dulled as he swiped another drink. “Who’d want to stay a child forever?”

“Didn’t take you for the type that wanted to grow old.” Because traveling bards rarely did. If he wanted to grow old in peace he should have become a court bard or something. He was good enough. He knew Jaskier was good enough.

“Well that’s two different things.” He leaned against his shoulder. Roach and leather braided into his scent. He eased into the smell. “But that would be quite the thing, wouldn’t it? To get to be old and grey. With aching joints and stories no one would listen to anymore?”

“Sounds awful.” He echoed.

“Yeah.” He lied. “But staying a child forever. That sounds worse.”

“Kids joints don’t hurt.”

He hummed in conceit. Head falling onto his shoulder.

“Choose the wrong life to grow old Jaskier.”

“It’s working out so far.” He mumbled. “Besides. You’re what? Eighty? Ninety? Clearly it’s possible.”

That was remarkably close. “I’m a Witcher.” He reminded. Because he was old but not like Vesemir was old. Because time was different for Witchers. “Keep going like this and someday death’s going to find you.” You could only have so many close calls before your luck ran out. Jaskier had already had plenty it seemed.

“Ah but that’s the goal.” He said, worryingly. “That she finds me someday. But not today. Someday but not today.”

He slumped behind him. Trying to drag him down. He remained upright. Even as Jaskier dedicated his whole mass to the task of toppling him.

“Geralt.” He whined.

He huffed and laid down. Jaskier curling up behind him. Flush to his back with an arm draped over his side. The quiet consistent hum of his chest pressing into him.

“I’m eighteen you know?” He didn’t. “I asked and I turned eighteen three days ago.” He would have to find out what the date was. “I thought. I hoped something would change. When I was a proper adult.”

He snorted. Distantly he remembered being that foolish.

“I know. I know. Stop judging me I know it was silly alright? Clearly none of the adults in the world have any idea what’s going on and we’re all just children faking it and I was stupid to hope there was something more to it.”

“I know what I’m doing.”

“You are a ninety year old man who still doesn’t know how to avoid getting dandruff!”

“I know how to hunt monsters. Track. I’m not faking that.” He continued over Jaskier’s ‘that wasn’t what I meant’ “I thought I was. When I started. But I’m not anymore.”

The fire crackled.

“Are you trying to tell me it gets better?”

“No.” He lied. That had been, he realized with disgust.

It didn’t all get easier. But some of it did. He learned how to deal or avoid with the things that didn’t. The scars behind his ears had faded. Still present. They would always be there he assumed. But they were faded. Decades old now.

“Well.” His breath tickled at the base of his neck. “I thought of a story about Neverland. Want to hear it?”

“No.” He answered honestly. Because it was late and he was tired and he didn't want to think about how the only bedtime stories little witchers were told was by their aching arms and legs.

Except the ones Vesemir told them. 

“Then you’d better fall asleep quickly because I’m going to anyway.” He warned. "All children except one grow up."

He drifted off between the fire and the warm melody of Jaskier's story.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That My Chickens are being stolen! Quest is lifted from the games. You can watch it on youtube if you search the 'witcher 3 Chicken Thieves'. I, much like Jaskier, declare they all got adopted and got to grow up btw. Also I love stealing from canon. I do it a few times here. What fun it is! Next time! The brothel! I think. I think that's where we need to go next since birthday actually tied itself in nicely here. WE'LL SEE.


	5. Brothel

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter takes place in a brothel. We don't have any explicit scenes but if that's going to squick you out then probably pass on this chapter. Also there's an instance of a man pulling Jaskier into his lap with questionable at best consent. The situation is resolved quick but take care of yourselves! Also Geralt thinks about some of the ladies. Have fun!

A brothel.

How Jaskier had known the Madam had a spare room that she was willing to part with for a night of music he did not know. But he’d skipped past the inn with so much as a second glance and he’d learned to trust Jaskier on these matters.

Which was terrifying. Trusting that idiot with anything. He’d sown his pants together last week. Left his expensive clothing balled up and soaking on the floor when it rained. Thought vampires were romantic and wraiths were poor lost souls and that Witchers were people; first and foremost.

But he knew how to find a room. Or at least a place to sleep. He had to give him that.

“I trust my gut and it doesn’t lead me astray!” He’d boasted.

And then that very evening they’d been run out of town because Jaskier couldn’t help but improv a very insulting ditty about the rangers who’d joined them in the bar.

They made sport of hunting humanoids. They’d proudly declared it to the bar.

So he couldn’t find it in himself to be angry over the lost meal, bed or coin.

But clearly his foresight was limited. If that was in fact the cause of Jaskier’s miraculous luck. Or at least it couldn’t stop him from acting against their interests. Which wouldn’t be surprising. Restraint wasn’t the bard’s specialty.

A heady scent, that reminded him vaguely of watermelon without the sweetness of the sugar, filled his lungs.

He looked up from his ale tracking Jaskier as he continued his slow circuit of the floor. Playing yet another of his songs that was well suited for a brothel. He really had too many of those.

It was a rare scent on Jaskier.

Which in itself was odd for a man who flirted his way through life and wouldn’t sleep alone. But it was rare. It was something he’d only smelled when Jaskier leaned in to an eager partner. The sweet-less watermelon mixing with theirs.

But it was a brothel. He couldn’t blame the man for getting worked up. He tried to smile at the woman who’d been fluttering her eyes at him for the last hour. She looked away and focused on scrubbing the table harder. So he doubted he’d succeeded.

He relaxed into the plush, if somewhat ragged, seat and considered if he had enough coin for some relief. The whole brothel reeked of sex and lust to his nose and it would be a very long night without it.

The music stuttered and he was no longer relaxed. He snapped his head around, teeth bared at whatever had caused the disturbance. 

Jaskier sat in the lap of a customer. Hands around Jaskier’s waist. The man muttered into his ear. His fingers played on as Jaskier laughed. High and tight.

He stood. A growl rumbling through his chest.

The Madam yanked them apart. Jaskier hung limply in her scuffing hold of his doublet as she lectured the man about how the bard wasn’t one of her girls and if he wanted company he’d damn well pay for it.

Jaskier’s fingers twitched on the strings. Eyes unfocused.

He bent over Jaskier’s limp form. Ignoring the half hard budge in his trousers to cup the back of his neck.

Blue eyes focused on him with an embarrassed smile. Lust and fear and embarrassment rolling off him in a putrid mixture.

“Dinner time.” He said pulling him out of the madam’s grip and marching him back to the booth he’d claimed. Shoving him in before sitting down himself.

Jaskier plastered himself against his side. Head snuggled into his neck.

He tolerated it. Because it was a brothel. Because between the corner and the booth no one but the working girls could see. He flagged one down and ordered dinner for Jaskier.

Jaskier’s hands, shaking and perpetually chilled, wrapped around one of his under the table. He burned the well of chaos just a little brighter and kept his eyes trained on the movement of everyone on the floor. Listened to the madam grow frustrated and kick the man out for the night.

“He’s gone.” He informed the bard. Although he suspected he already knew that. He had very good ears after all.

Jaskier sighed in relief and nuzzled further into his shoulder. So maybe he hadn’t.

“I forgot how loud brothels were.” Jaskier’s hands massaging the tension from his head.

The sounds of moaning from upstairs, performative giggling and chatter filled his ears. He grit his teeth and forced his focus back down to the hum of Jaskier’s chest against his. To the quiet rhythm of his heart against the soft melody.

“Smelly too.” Although usually he didn’t mind when he visited to partake. Usually the intensity of the excitement made everything better. Especially when he got to spend a few days in someone’s bed taking her apart over and over until he couldn’t smell anything but the way their pleasure mingled together and-

“Ugh Geralt please. Go back to being angry.”

He glared down at the crown of his head.

“Much better.”

He exhaled a snarl. Focused back on the people.

“There’s a few ladies who’d be very interested in taking you for a spin you know.”

The bard continued to pull at his fingers. Stroke the back of his hand with his thumb. “Shut up.”

“I’m just saying. So long as you don’t waste the room I’ve so generously earned I really don’t mind.”

He frowned. “Why would you mind?”

“I wouldn’t. That’s what I’m saying Geralt. Obviously.”

It didn’t sound like a lie. Jaskier was always too quick with his lies and it didn’t sound like one. It didn’t sound like how he responded when he asked ‘how’d you know their name?’ or ‘how’d you know she had work?’ or ‘how’d you know that innkeeper would throw us out?’

‘I overheard someone say it.’ He’d jump to. ‘She looked like she needed help’ he’d respond before he’d finished the question. Or most egregious ‘oh I’ve been here before.’

Too quick. His lies always came too quick. Just a fraction quicker than his truths.

Something still ticked at him. The question and response. His jaw tightened even as Jaskier tried to turn his hand to relaxed putty.

 _What question are you really asking?_ Came Vesemir’s voice.

Why would you mind if I slept with someone else? Why would you think I’d be concerned about that?

No.

“Why would you mind if I wasted the room?” He mumbled more to himself than Jaskier.

His cold hands stilled. His head tensed on his shoulder.

“Well it would be rather discourteous of you to spend all our food money on a bed when I’ve already acquired one for us now wouldn’t it?”

His hands resumed their kneading with a dedication. A focus that had been missing before.

He thought of how Jaskier always courted bedmates more urgently before he left for a few days on a hunt without him.

How a few times Jaskier had climbed in through the window after he’d returned and plastered himself against his side.

How once he’d come back to the bard curled up in the bed. Dark bruises under his eyes. But wide awake.

How when he’d reached out and traced the bruises. ‘Did you get in a bar fight?’ And the bard had fallen asleep. Then and there. Without a response.

_I’m not great at sleeping alone._

_Oh._ He thought. _He's worried he'd end up sleeping alone._

And then felt very silly about that feeling like a revelation. Because the fact the bard was clingy was not news or a surprise. He claimed to fall in love in every town they stopped in.

“I suppose.” He agreed. Setting his other hand atop Jaskier’s. They slowed. Relaxed. “Doesn’t mean we’re buying that honey cake at the bakery.”

“But Geralt!” He whined picking his head up from his shoulder to implore him with a wide eyed pout. “It’s definitely less expensive than a room would have been and it’d taste so good and I mean- have you even tried honey cake? Because it’s the best thing since- you’re not even listening to me are you- since the invention of the wheel. No wait except its better than the wheel because no one even enjoys the wheel- it’s just useful. So honey cake is actually better than the wheel because it’s actively enjoyed-“ He continued.

A homely girl set down a plate and a drink. She lingered.

“What?” He asked. She shrunk in on herself and he cursed his harsh voice.

“I just- you are going to play more right?” She fidgeted with the strings of her skirt.

One of Jaskier’s hands let go of his to prop against his cheek on the table. “Well if you’re asking I suppose I must.” He smiled at her. Like she’d hung the stars in the sky.

She blushed at the unmistakable honesty in his voice and face. “Oh.” Her voice shook lacking the confidence of a professional. “That’s. Good then.”

She smiled shyly. And in the moment before she turned away he thought she was beautiful.

He watched her swaying hips disappear into the kitchen and wondered what magic Jaskier had over the world. To so easily turn the plain into beautiful. Monstrous into heroic. Lonely quiet into joyful noise.

And then Jaskier slurped his soup loud and grotesquely. And he wondered instead at how Jaskier could so easily turn his good mood to irritation.

It had to be a gift.


	6. Leather and streams

He scrubbed down in the stream. It was hot out. The water was cool. It was lovely.

Jaskier was singing. Rinsing his hair in the water. Joy blossomed off him. Dandelions. His joy smelled like dandelions.

He turned just enough to watch Jaskier. Sitting in the water. His hands ruffling his dripping hair. Displaying the smooth curve of his ears.

That didn’t mean he was wrong.

Empaths were largely elven. But he could be half- quarter- hell he could be less. He just needed some ancestry. 

It would explain the headaches in crowded spaces. How he knew so instinctively how he was feeling. Even when he couldn’t express it himself. Why he could tell when a place needed a Witcher. Why he loved Elven lore. Because it was a part of him. Whether or not he knew it. 

And for the rest of it. Knowing names. Which inns were bad. Predicting incoming griffins. Why he was scared of mages but not Witchers.

He was a soothsayer. Prophetic. But he didn’t want to be trained. Didn’t want to be a sorcerer or a priest.

He wanted to be a bard. He was scared they’d take that away from him.

It made sense. It was a reasonable conclusion.

Jaskier stood. The firm curve of his ass. The steel of his thighs. He pushed his hair back from his eyes and water ran down his arms. Into the dark curls of his chest. Over the tight arch of his ass. Down the trucks of his thighs.

His mouth was very dry. He turned away.

When had that happened? When had-

Jaskier laughed. “What? See something you like?” He could hear him wink.

Annoying. That’s what that was. Jaskier talked like he was constantly flirting. Acted like it. But he’d never once smelled interested in him.

It was annoying. That Jaskier would flirt with him even though he had no interest in him. But that was just how Jaskier talked.

He didn’t want Jaskier flirting with him in earnest anyway. He didn’t.

Mass collided with the small of his back. Knocking him into the water.

He spun the offending bard around into the water. Pinning his naked ass to the stream’s bottom. Locking his head in a choke hold just above the surface.

“I got you!” He rejoiced. Wiggling in his hold.

“You are this close to being drowned bard.”

“You’re fingers are touching.”

“Exactly.” He dunked him.

He came up sputtering insults. Hands reaching back to yank on his hair.

“You’re such shit at this.” He laughed letting him go.

“Am I? Or am I fantastic at this?”

“Absolute griffin shit.”

He smirked. Much too pleased with himself. “You say that but I got the drop on a Witcher.”

Got the drop on a Witcher.

Water dripped off the tips of his fingers.

 _Only because it was you._ Came a traitorous voice. _Because there’s no point in being guarded like that with you._

He tackled him into the water.

Roach huffed in judgmental irritation. Moving away from the splashing.

“I know. I know. I shouldn’t trust him.” He soothed while Jaskier gathered firewood. “But he makes it so easy. Being a helpless idiot and all. He still can’t start a fire on his own Roach.”

_And if that’s a lie? An act?_

“He’s not that good an actor or a liar.” He pointed out. Stroking her neck.

_Be careful. It’s dangerous. Getting attached._

“I know.” He mumbled into her withers. Renfri's broach heavy on the handle of his blade. “Believe me. I know.”

But Jaskier was here. He was warm. Happy to be next to him.

How was he supposed to contend with that?

“You know you never finished explaining the merits of a monster deck to me last night.” Jaskier declared. Dropping a bundled and pulling out the hatchet to chop them into usable pieces.

“Monster decks rely on the muster ability,” He explained eagerly. He fucking loved qwent. He rambled on about its merits and weaknesses and the cards he wished he had because if he had that card then his deck would be perfect and-

He stopped. Turned back to Jaskier. Even Eskel got annoyed at him for talking too much about qwent. He could go for hours. Jaskier didn’t even like qwent.

He’d finished chopping at some point and was just lying there. Arms crossed under his chin. Smiling up at him. Smelling like a field of dandelions.

“So you want a lot of clear weather cards then? Just in case?”

“Exactly.” He nodded. His chest too tight. “And when you swap cards at the start of a round it’s important to diversify the muster cards in hand.”

“Fascinating.” He said like he really believed it was.

There was the barmaid last week who talked incessantly about butterflies. The farmhand who’d gotten so excited about crop rotations he’d flapped his hands and hopped between his feet.

Him with his qwent obsession.

How Jaskier looked at all of them like that. Smelling like a field of dandelions. Spurring them on. As if there was nothing better in the world then their excitement and joy.

 _You can feel it can’t you?_ He thought at the bard. Jaskier cocked his head. Confused as to why he’d stopped. _You can feel our joy._

“Geralt?”

“We need more water.”

His brow knit together. “Right now?”

“Yes.” _Or else I will bury myself in the curve of your neck and inhale your joy until it sours. Because you do not want me that way._ “Right now.”

Jaskier’s eyes searched his face. He pushed up and brushed himself off before standing. “Then this had better be one hell of a stew. Making me get water. After I collected all that firewood. Really.”

“Consider jumping in.” He knelt in front of the fire pit. Readying it for cooking. “Your stockings still stink.”

He stuck his tongue out, walking backwards to the stream. “If it wouldn’t be an ordeal to take them off right now I would throw them at your head Witcher!”

“The horror.” He deadpanned.

Jaskier disappeared into the trees and he stood to pull the mess kit from his bags.

He froze. The leather in his hands.

It smelled like leather and Roach and him and Jaskier.

_Don’t get attached._

Jaskier’s scent had sunk into the fabric of his life. Mingled until he could barely tell them apart.

Roach, Geralt, and Jaskier. Jaskier, Geralt and Roach.

“Fuck.” He whispered. Pressing his nose to the leather.

_It’s already too late._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright alright. Short chapter. I'll stop procrastinating finishing the next big part. Do you like bar fights? I hope you like bar fights! Do you like cuddles? Hope you like cuddles! Do you like hurting Jaskier! Cause boy that's the theme of this. Next chapters going to be a Ride. Ofta. Also can you tell I'm ace? Geralt's attracted to... dat ass tho. uuhhhh. Yeah. Sh. It's fine.  
> Thank you for reading!


	7. Acrimony and fish guts

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for this chapter: Violence to unnamed persons, mentions of vomit, threats of violence and hm panic attacks? Jaskier has a not great time. Take care of yourselves.

This town was awful.

It stank of fish guts, the ale more resembled piss, and the bard playing the bar when they arrived kept screeching his fiddle.

An awful town after a frankly awful week.

The last contract hadn’t paid nearly well enough. It had poured for two days straight. Which had resulted in a whinny and shivering companion. And they were low on food.

So they had to stay the night; drying their clothes at the inn- even though that meant the fish stink would linger long after they departed- and refill their stores before they could leave.

He pulled his hood up over his hair and kept his head low at the bar. Jaskier did the same, curling the cloak Geralt had made him purchase last month tighter around his frame. It might have been odd if not for the weather and several other travelers who were doing the same.

Jaskier’s leg bounced rapidly shaking the table. His fingers tapped an unstable rhythm on his mug. It was annoying.

He downed his mug.

It was empty.

Fuck.

He growled at it.

Jaskier jabbed his open hand out towards him, head turned to look behind him. He bore his teeth at him.

Jaskier’s eyes flickered to him with a flash of annoyance. “You want a refill or not?”

Oh. 

He felt silly.

He didn’t really want more piss ale but he also didn’t want to finish this stale bread without some sort of drink.

He nodded and handed Jaskier the mug. He hoped the man read the apology in his bent head and shoulders.

But he was looking behind him again. So he doubted it.

There were a few tables with the standard collection of travelers, mercenaries and sailors. A few with townsfolk. There was one man who’d managed to get drunk already. A staggering feat on drink this poor. He was drifting between tables making lewd comments and insulting everyone he passed.

He wouldn’t get involved. A Witcher throwing a drunk out would cause more problems than the man himself. Especially since the man had shown no violent tendencies.

Gods he wished he could though.

The man stumbled into Jaskier’s path and grabbed his arm. Geralt looked up.

The man slurred something about him being a ‘pretty boy’ and ‘maybe they could share one of the whores at the bar’.

Geralt lips twitched up into a small grin.

Jaskier would verbally dress him down and then tear him a new one. He’d witnessed it several times. It wasn’t as satisfying as an actual fight but it was close.

He saw the edge of Jaskier’s face around the hood. Hard. He looked at the man. Then the hand on gripping his bicep.

The bottom dropped out from under Geralt as Jaskier’s free arm raised the mug high in the air.

Brought it down on the man’s head.

He crumpled to the floor. Jaskier stood there. Face blank.

The bar erupted into fighting.

He leaped the table shoving Jaskier’s still form to the floor out of the way of a mercenary’s incoming swing.

He punched the man out cold.

His blood sung with the fight. The bar roared with yelling and wood smashing.

He swept the feet out from under on a fishermen as he grabbed a soldier. They both crashed into the ground satisfyingly.

Someone grabbed his arm.

He swung towards them, teeth bared in a grin.

His fist stopped a moment from Jaskier’s face.

He was still kneeling on the ground, holding himself up by Geralt’s forearm. His eyes were wide. Pleading.

“We need to go!” His voice high and desperate cut through the haze. “Geralt we need to go!”

He stood there for one moment. Taking in those eyes. The fight around them.

Something was wrong.

Everyone was fighting, even the staff. No one was hiding under the tables. No one was trying to leave.

He grabbed Jaskier and fled the bar.

Dropped him in the mud as soon as they were out of the bar. Jaskier made an indignant cry at him but followed dutifully to the inn. 

Jaskier stomped off to the room as Geralt went to check on Roach in the stable. Good. If he was locked up in the room before the news spread maybe they wouldn’t get kicked out.

Roach still hadn’t been tended to.

Several horses had clearly been recently brought in and they hadn’t been gone long but it was still irritating.

The stable hand wasn’t even present.

He picked her feet efficiently. Stable hands often had trouble getting her to pick her feet up for them and it wasn’t clear when they would get to her.

They still weren’t here.

He found a curry comb and began working off the heavy layer of mud.

Roach stomped at him.

He looked at her, surprised.

He’d been using too much force. Fuck.

“Sorry.” He muttered into her mane. He waited for her acceptance before restarting, making sure to be more gentle.

He was still annoyed. Frustrated. He forced himself to count brush strokes and calm.

When he finished with the curry comb it was just a twinge in his jaw.

The stable hand finally shuffled in. He handed the boy a few coin and gave him directions. The boy opened his mouth to tell him off. Caught the yellow of his eyes. Swallowed and nodded without a word.

Good.

Now to deal with Jaskier.

If he was going to start bar fights because someone suggested he was a ‘pretty boy’ they were going to have to part ways.

He already had a reputation of senseless violence. If his companion had one too they’d never eat in a bar or sleep in a bed again.

He expected to hear music playing in their room. The lute. Singing. Humming at least.

He hadn’t expect the smell of sick.

Jaskier was kneeling over the wash basin, chest heaving as he retched.

“Jaskier?” He pulled off his glove crossing the room to him. He reached for the back of his neck to check for a fever.

“Don’t touch me.” He halted a step behind him, hand outstretched.

He stayed still listening to Jaskier’s breathing slowly steady.

“Is she ok?” Geralt’s brow furrowed. She? “My lute, Geralt.”

He glanced back at the lute where it sat, discarded. Not where it had been tucked away before they left for the bar. Jaskier had claimed he was too tired to play. He’d agreed. Besides the other bard would have prevented him from playing anyway.

“Your lute is fine Jaskier.”

Jaskier let out a sob of relief. He leaned against the wall. He was shivering violently.

“I almost broke her. I was-“A shaking sob cut him off. “So angry. I almost broke her Geralt.”

That was absurd. Jaskier had put himself in harm’s way multiple times to keep it safe. He’d once replaced the case instead of his shoes even though he’d worn a hole in the heel because the case had a small crack and he’d worried the humidity might damage it.

Besides he’d seen Jaskier furious. It only ever involved ranting, screaming and pacing. Never physical violence.

Until tonight that was.

“You’d never.” He still said. Jaskier would never. That lute was his life.

“Geralt I will rip your throat out with my teeth if you try to tell me what I am capable of again.” Jaskier’s eyes flashed with rage and he bared his teeth- stained with sick.

Something was very wrong.

“Something’s wrong.”

“Yeah no shit Geralt.” He pressed himself harder into the wood paneling, humming to himself as always. The tone of it made him anxious.

“Did…” He tried to think of what might have caused this. Offered him a cup of water. “You get cursed?”

They’d separated a while back for work but they’d been together for bit now. He hadn’t noted any bedmates angry enough to curse him not that it was impossible. His medallion hadn’t vibrated either but it wasn’t infallible.

"No." He rinsed his mouth and spit. “Fuck- Geralt it’s not me.” His voice was small and tight. His hair was still dripping with rain. Geralt grabbed a small towel and offered it to him. “It’s this entire fucking town.”

Jaskier took the towel from his frozen form and rubbed his hair vigorously.

The entire town?

What did he mean the _entire_ town?

“What?” He enquired eloquently.

Jaskier pulled the towel over his face to dry it off muffling his words. “It’s the whole town Geralt. Everyone’s on edge. You almost bit me earlier for trying to refill your ale.”

He had not. That was absurd. The implication that he’d _bite_ Jaskier was just so patently ridiculous that he ought to-

There was that anger again.

“The weather’s been bad.” He pointed out, not convinced of his point.

Jaskier glared at him over the towel. “That entire bar started fighting.”

“You didn’t.” He had started it. But he'd convinced Geralt to leave.

He wrapped the towel around his hands to try and warm them up. He looked ill again. “William- the bard. Smashed his fiddle. I heard it.”

The shivers progressed to full shaking. He reached out to hold Jaskier but stopped. Jaskier had told him not to touch.

“And then I almost broke her because one of the strings was a little out of tune.” Jaskier’s breathed, short and rapid. “And oh- Gods Geralt. I attacked that man. I felt him crumple under me and-" His heart raced.

“Jaskier!” He called sharply. Trying to draw his focus. The humming in Jaskier’s chest turned into a terrifying buzz.

“I could have killed him! I would have killed him! Oh Gods I would have killed him!” Jaskier tried to flail his hands but they were tangled in the towel. His eyes lost focus as he tried to escape them.

“Jaskier!” He grabbed his arm and tore the towel off.

Jaskier’s eyes focused on his hand. He didn’t breathe.

He let go and drew back.

Jaskier dove after his hand with both of his, knocking them backwards and falling into his lap.

His hands clasped his so tightly like they were the only thing grounding him. Jaskier’s forehead pressed against his chest as he kneeled between Geralt’s spread legs. He sobbed into his chest.

Geralt slowly brought his other hand up to cradle Jaskier’s head. He sobbed louder and pressed closer.

That cursed buzzing slowly quieted back to its standard hum but it was still an unpleasant tone.

That wasn’t how Jaskier was supposed to sound.

He searched his memory trying to remember how he was supposed to sound.

He couldn’t think of how it sounded. It wasn’t like it was consistent. It just wasn’t this.

Jaskier sobbed again. He lowered his unclaimed hand and twisted Jaskier so he was tucked into his side. Once he was settled there he moved his hand back up to Jaskier’s head. Covered one ear and pressed the other into his chest.

He could only think of one song. So he hummed it.

Jaskier’s eyes, red with tears, widened. He closed them with a whimper and started humming along.

He repeated the song over and over until Jaskier began to dose against him. The room had darkened almost completely in the time it took to calm him.

Jaskier had been tired when they’d arrived. Now he was long past exhausted.

“Jaskier.” He nudged him. Jaskier squeezed his hand lightly. “Can I pick you up?” His head nodded a fraction under his palm.

“Ok. I need my hand back for a minute.” Jaskier frowned. “You can hold on to my neck instead.”

Several moments passed. Then one hand let go and settled against his neck. It was still cold.

His hands were always cold. But they were frigid. Like ice.

He held the other hand and moved it around his neck. He held it there with his hand. “I’m going to let go now, okay?”

Jaskier took several breaths before he nodded.

He let go and hooked it under Jaskier’s legs while the other came down to his shoulders. He rearranged his legs and stood up with Jaskier in his arms.

Jaskier tucked his head into his neck. He buried his nose in Jaskier’s hair.

He smelt of sick, fear, and fish guts but he could still detect the chamomile perfume here. Not completely washed away by the rain.

The humming in Jaskier’s chest changed.

That was how it was supposed to sound.

He rumbled his approval.

Jaskier smiled against his neck.

He lowered Jaskier into the bed. His clothes were still wet. The wash basin still had sick in it.

One thing at a time.

“Jaskier you need to get out of these clothes.” His hands were still around Geralt’s neck. He looked up at Geralt with a small smile and one tired eyebrow wiggle.

“No,” He said understanding the suggestion there, “Because they’re wet and you’re freezing.” And because he wasn’t interested. Not really.

He huffed in mock disappointment looking away.

“Can you take them off?” Jaskier’s fingers dug into his neck.

“Okay. Can I help you take them off?” His hands unclenched slightly and he nodded.

He loosened his doublet, taking his hand in his to feed it through the sleeves before returning them to his neck. His shirt was damp although it smelled more of sweat then rain. He untied the laces.

Jaskier closed his eyes and actively hummed along to the tune in his chest. It was good to hear him making noise again. He peeled the shirt off him one arm at a time.

Jaskier trusted too much. He was practically asleep in his arms. Bare chested. Unafraid. He should have been afraid. He’d almost punched him in the face tonight.

“Jaskier, trousers too?” He’d be far colder with them on but just removing them seemed wrong. To assume he could.

“Buy me dinner first.” Geralt inhaled sharply. Jaskier’s silence finally broken.

He longed for silence some days. When Jaskier’s rambling and fumbling chords gave him a headache. But silence was unnatural for the bard.

The anxious knot in his gut loosened.

“I did buy dinner.” He pushed the hair from Jaskier’s face. He’d have the worst bedhead tomorrow.

It was his favorite look. Because most days it was just his. Jaskier unkempt.

“Oh well that’s alright then.” He mumbled.

He nodded. Not that Jaskier could see it between the dark room and his closed eyes. He undid the pants and shuffled them off along with his boots and socks. He laid them out to dry on the floor as best he could with Jaskier still holding him.

Jaskier sat on the edge of the bed in nothing but his underclothes. Eyes closed. All unscarred pale skin and dark hair.

He shouldn’t trust him like this. He shouldn’t trust him at all. He was dangerous.

“Don’t get maudlin on me Geralt. I’m far too tired for your brooding.”

He tugged the blanket around his shoulders. “Lay down Jaskier.”

“I’d love to but you’re still standing there.” He tugged at Geralt’s neck.

“I’m still dressed.”

“I know how to fix that.” He smiled up at Geralt his eyes flickering open.

Blue.

Warm.

Trusting.

His chest constricted painfully.

Jaskier’s smile got a little brighter. “Please Geralt?”

His hands twitched.

He wanted-

No.

“I need to clean up.”

Jaskier’s smile flickered out. “Okay.” His hands fell from his neck. They were finally warm. He shuffled under the covers.

He went and cleaned up the sick. The room would still smell in the morning but it would be less. He started removing his armor.

“What could make an entire town irritated Geralt?” He glanced back to Jaskier. Who was laying on his side under the covers. Watching him.

Or trying to anyway. Human night vision was poor. That sense of Jaskier's at least was as weak as normal. Stumbling in the dark for a late night piss. Tripping over roots blindly.

“There’s no proof the whole town’s affected.” It seemed likely the bar was affected. And the inn, considering the stablehand. But assuming was dangerous.

“It’s the whole town Geralt." Jaskier said with an audible eye roll. "Everyone was all frowns and short tempers. _You_ got cranky after we entered town.”

“The weather’s shit and it stinks of fish guts here. That’s not magic.”

“So it might be magic?” Why wouldn’t Jaskier just drop it?

He frowned.

That irritation wasn’t right.

He sighed. “It might be. Could be a curse, could be a monster.”

He set his armor by the bed and stripped off his shirt. “What kind of monster?”

He considered that as he peeled off his pants. Curse was more likely but “If it’s really the whole town that limits it a fair amount.” Although there was no way Jaskier could tell it was the whole town, empath or no. The range would be too large. Just that everywhere they’d been was affected. 

“A higher vampire could manage it but just irritating a town doesn’t make much sense. Some monsters produce compounds that enrage but for it to be this low grade-” Jaskier snorted, “A mage would have to be releasing a restricted dosage. Otherwise they’d would be murderous not short tempered. And at that dosage I wouldn’t be affected.”

Jaskier raised the covers for him as he climbed into bed.

“A powerful specter," an acrimony perhaps, "could do it but there would be a focal point. Somewhere the anger would be worse.” He settled on his back and Jaskier wiggled into his side. “Course we could always have a listener on our hands.” He joked.

Jaskier stilled against him. “A listener could do this?”

“Don’t know. They’re supposed to know the hearts of every soul alive and dead. So they might be able to influence people.”

“You don’t know?” Jaskier’s fingers traced the network of scars on his chest.

“I’m not that old Jaskier.” He rumbled in amusement. “The last one died before I was born. They’re not exactly common.”

“Once a century.”

“Give or take.”

Jaskier hummed. “So a specter then?”

“Don’t think its magic?” Jaskier usually pretended not to know these things better.

“No. Not magic.” He said with an exhausted certainty. He looked so tired.

“Then probably.” If Jaskier was too tired to bother hiding his divining then he was too tired to push.

“So what are we going to do?” Fingers began tapping his chest.

He covered them with his hand. “Sleep.”

“I meant in the morning.”

“Go to sleep Jaskier.”

Jaskier grumbled but sank into him.

Geralt closed his eyes. Jaskier’s quiet humming vibrated against the side of his chest. He wondered if that’s what purring felt like.

“Geralt?’ Jaskier muttered half asleep. “Thanks.”

He didn’t need thanks. He hadn’t done anything. Without Jaskier he’d be sleeping in the rain unaware these people needed help. Roach would have spent another night soaked. His armor would still be poorly sown together with monster guts. He’d still be the Butcher.

And he’d be alone.

Jaskier didn’t owe him thanks.

He owed him them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was actually one of the first sections I wrote. And then I got to where this chapter ends and was like. I don't really want to write the investigation portion. I'll do that later. And then I never did. Because I didn't want to. And at this point i'm going to commit to that. It was an acrimony - a specter variant I made up because if we can have plague maidens and penitents then I can make up a variant too. :p
> 
> We'll touch on the effects of this (Spectors make Jaskier very :( and give him migraines mostly) in the Kaer Morhen section which is hm. probably the chapter after next. Next chapter I start to earn that explicit tag. And then we have pillow forts at Kaer Morhen.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay this chapters got some shit in it. Geralt eavesdropping on Jaskier/lady having sex. Lots of talk and references to oral sex. A brief moment where Jaskier retracts consent and his partner tries to encourage him to keep going (stopped by Geralt) aaand then Jaskier offering Geralt sex to get him to sleep with him. Also shutdown by Geralt. Take care of yourselves.

The bard had an odd preference he’d realized.

He hadn’t wanted to notice. He hadn’t tried to notice. He had explicitly not been paying attention.

It was just hard not to notice when the man came back in the morning face smelling of someone else and pants thick with the musk of his spend.

His pants only ever smelled of his spend. Never anyone else’s. Not even faintly. Like they’d never touched him at all.

There was, of course, the rare exception. The farmhand from a few months back. The dancer in Vizima. But his preference seemed remarkably consistent.

He hadn’t wanted to notice. It was just hard not to.

It was harder still to ignore the moans of tonight’s partner in the room adjacent as the man ate her out. He could hear Jaskier answering her moans loudly with his own. Clearly enjoying it just as much as she was.

He was hard.

It had just been a while since he’d had coin for a brothel. A very long while. And though there was the occasional thrill seeker who wanted to claim him as a conquest he rarely slept with them.

He’d had little choice since- in the last two decades. But they made him uncomfortable and he hadn’t been desperate enough to go after them in a while. He’d had plenty of company these past months and he could find his own release.

Which was all this was, he told himself as he wrapped his hand around himself. Just taking one of his few moments alone to handle this.

Jaskier let out a sudden breathless gasp. Fuck he must have been close.

His hand moved faster.

He just wanted to make sure he was done before Jaskier came back. If he came back tonight.

“Oh fuck.” Jaskier’s shaking voice barely made it to him through the thin walls. The woman made a questioning noise. She’d stopped moaning.

“Ah- sorry my dear.” He twisted his hand just the way he liked it and Jaskier cut himself off with a sharp moan.

Fuck he sounded nice.

That was not what this was about. He stilled himself to remind himself of that.

The woman’s moans started up again.

The bed in their room wasn’t creaking no matter how loud she and Jaskier got. Which meant they weren’t on the bed. Jaskier was probably on his knees, her skirt draped over his head. Held to his feast by her soft thighs and fingers in his hair. He must have been pawing at himself given the small desperate sounds he was making.

He started moving his hand again. Quickly.

He was just listening to her. Imagining he was in her place. Blue eyes hooded and staring up at him as he-

No- that he was in Jaskier’s place. Not hers. Fuck.

She gasped out her climax. He heard the shuttering exhale of Jaskier’s.

He could almost taste his spend. On his tongue. In his nose. It’d be stuck there even after Jaskier washed.

He spent silently shortly after. Fuck that felt good.

He heard Jaskier bang against the floor, crying out in strangled delight.

Fuck had he misjudged Jaskier’s climax?

No. He hadn’t. He was sure.

“Are you alright?” The woman asked.

Jaskier tried to whimper reassurance but it just sounded pained.

He wiped himself down with his spare shirt and tucked himself into his pants hastily. Had Jaskier hurt himself?

“Fine.” His voiced strained. He stood up. He didn’t sound fucking fine. “I’m sorry I don’t think I can go another round.”

He paused halfway to the door. What was he doing? He wasn’t going to break into their room while they were in some state of undress. Let them know he’d been fucking listening.

“Oh you don’t have to go another round.” Jaskier whimpered. “But I bet the fantastic tongue of yours can.”

He was at the door. Jaskier had said he was done. So he was fucking done.

“Rebecca I can’t-”

He knocked. Forcibly.

The woman, Rebecca, squeaked in shock.

Jaskier sighed in relief.

“I’ll get it. Just-” He imagined Jaskier waving her to redress. There was a sharp bang against the wood and Jaskier cursed.

He tried the door handle.

Locked.

He growled.

“I’m fine, I’m fine. Legs are just a bit wobbly that’s all. One moment.” He was probably just talking to her, he wasn’t speaking loud enough for most people to be able to understand him through the door.

The reassurance stopped him from tearing it down.

He waited at the door listening to Jaskier’s unsteady gait. The small click of the door unlocking and Jaskier collapsing against the wall next to the doorframe. Jaskier eased open the door just wide enough for him but not enough to view the woman.

“Hi Geralt.” He said like he’d known exactly who was at the door. He smiled at him.

He looked fucked out and exhausted. His hair was a mess and he could smell her all over Jaskier’s face. Jaskier’s crotch was faintly wet with his spend where it had seeped through his underwear to his trousers. He must not have even taken himself out.

He didn’t know what to say. He didn’t know what he was doing. What the fuck was he doing?

Jaskier reached an arm out and hooked it over his shoulder. “Can you help me back to our room? I think my legs might give out.”

He nodded and looped an arm under Jaskier’s armpits and hauled him from the room. He pulled the door closed behind them.

Jaskier was heavy and swayed like he was drunk. They’d done this exact thing many times when Jaskier got hammered.

Jaskier was not hammered. He could smell that perfectly.

He didn’t appreciate what that smell was doing to his anatomy. Especially when he shifted Jaskier closer to him so he could open the door and was assaulted by a fresh wave of it.

Fuck Witcher stamina.

Jaskier made a pained noise against him as the door opened. “Geralt please I can’t-“ He sobbed.

He was soft in an instant. He hauled him into the room closing the door with his foot. “I know. You’re done. No one’s going to touch you Jaskier.” Melitele how many people had kept going when Jaskier said stop? What was wrong with people? 

He lowered Jaskier into a sitting position on the bed. Jaskier’s hand gripped weakly at the back of his neck. He slouched forward, eyes drifting closed before jerking open. Fighting sleep.

“Let’s get you cleaned up.” He took Jaskier’s hand on his neck and lowered it into his lap. Jaskier didn’t respond. “Okay?” He asked.

“Hmm.” Jaskier gave him a small nod. Which was more helpful than the noise he’d made.

He got up and collected the wash basin from the room. One of the small towels. It was more of a rag. This wasn’t the nicest inn they’d stayed at. Or the worst.

In the brief time he’d taken to grab them Jaskier had curled up on the bed. He was clutching something.

He knelt next to the bed and dampened the rag. He held it out. Jaskier didn’t move.

“Jaskier wash your face off.” He ordered.

He squeezed his hands tighter around the black cloth. Rubbing the fabric between his fingers. He shook his head minutely.

He sighed. “Can I wash you off?” He hesitated. He didn’t want Jaskier to misunderstand. “Just your face. I won’t touch anywhere else.”

Jaskier nodded and his eyes fell closed.

He methodically cleaned from one side to the other until the smell was mostly faded. He couldn’t do any better with just water.

He pulled away and began wringing the rag out. He couldn’t fix the seed drying in his trousers but at least his face wouldn’t be sticky.

Jaskier curled up tighter pressing his face into the bundle in his hands. Breathing it in.

His spine when ridged.

That was his shirt.

The one he’d used as a rag.

Fuck.

Human noses were weak but they weren’t that weak.

“Did you enjoy the show?” Jaskier mumbled. He nosed deeper into the shirt.

Fuck fuck fuck.

He replayed Jaskier’s pained noises in his head willing himself not to react.

He was nosing Geralt’s cum rag. Covering his face in Geralt’s scent. Covering that woman’s scent with his.

A pained noise escaped both of them as he desperately tried to stop the flooding arousal.

“Oh fuck. You really like that don’t you?” Jaskier’s eyes had opened and were staring at him. He’d nearly folded over with arousal.

“I’m not going to touch you.” He tried to reassure. He wouldn’t. But he waited for the scent of Jaskier’s fear all the same.

Because he was in bed with someone who was interested in him. That he wasn’t interested in. Because he'd clearly had experience with people who didn't understand what no meant. He waited for putrid fear to fill the space.

It didn’t come.

“I know. I believe you.” He had lowered the shirt. That made it easier. But he still smelled like him now. “I wasn’t trying to-“

“I know.”

“No- I. I hadn’t meant to ask you not to get aroused and then do something to make you.”

“I’m not an animal Jaskier.” He said annoyed. “I don’t jump unwilling people just because I’m aroused.”

He expected to be hurt by the assumption he would. And it did. It stung but worse was the question it brought with it. How many people had done exactly that to Jaskier?

The answer didn’t seem to be no one. That was more than enough to make him angry.

The arousal faded.

Jaskier made a grateful noise. “I know. That’s not really the issue anyway.”

His frown deepened. Scowling. Jaskier let go of the shirt with one hand to wave at his crotch. “Spirits willing but the flesh is weak I’m afraid.”

He closed his eyes in discomfort.

“Two in rapid succession was a bit much. I feel like my insides were scooped out and it left an oversensitive mess.”

Fuck. So he had heard right.

How had he even managed that?

Empath. Right.

He squeezed his eyes closed and was very grateful for how hard the mutations made blushing. Jaskier knew what he’d been doing. And every time he got turned on he projected it to the bard with his human stamina.

“Geralt?” He opened his eyes. Forcing himself to be calm. “Can I make a big request? You can say no.” His face was scrunched up. He wanted to reach over and smooth it out. He didn’t.

“Hmm.” He agreed.

“Can you,” He grimaced. “Clean me up?” He waved at his waist again. “It’s kind of making everything worse.”

His eyes snapped back to Jaskier’s face. Still closed off.

“What?” There was no fucking way Jaskier wanted him to do that. He backed away. “I’ll go. You can do it yourself.” Jaskier didn’t want him doing that. Not while that scent was amping him up and he was recovering and-

Jaskier whimpered. Crushed his shirt in his hands. “Alright.” He agreed in the tightest and tiniest voice Geralt had ever heard from him. He’d barely heard him at all.

“Fuck. Fine – I’ll help - I just.” He didn’t want Jaskier to make that noise again. “Wanted to make sure.” He finished lamely.

Jaskier buried his face in the shirt again. “Please.”

“Yeah alright.” He wouldn’t just leave him here. “I’m going to take your trousers off now.” He reached down and untied the laces tugging them loose. He tugged them down.

He still had his shoes on. He pulled them off and set them on the floor. The heels were wearing out. He need new ones soon. Hopefully he’d choose ones better suited for the road next time.

He finished shuffling the pants off from Jaskier’s unhelpful form and threw them over the chair.

Now for the hard part.

Difficult part. Difficult part. Not hard. Soft. Soft fucking part. No not the fucking part at all. No parts hard or soft. Just a task that he was going to do without any untoward reactions.

“Geralt?” He grunted. “You don’t have to do this.”

Jaskier looked so tired and sad with his barely opened eyes peaking over Geralt’s shirt.

“I know.” His hands hovered next to the bands of his soiled underclothes. “I’m going to take this off now.”

He waited.

Jaskier blinked at him. His eyebrows twitched together, confused.

He nodded.

He began peeling the fabric off him, trying to avoid touching Jaskier with his hands or the fabric. He didn’t let his eyes linger on the dark curls or the pale skin underneath.

“I’m not the best in bed because of this. Bit too overeager as it were.”

He shuffled the underwear off his ankles and dropped it on the floor.

“She didn’t seem to mind.” Jaskier was young. He’d learn and his body would calm down eventually.

“Until I had to tap out at one. I can’t even manage more than three before it gets overwhelming. What lady is satisfied with only three?”

That was probably three more than most of the woman in these towns normally got. He wet the rag and rung it out.

He paused.

“Do you always come with your partner?”

Why in the eternal fire was he asking that. That was not information he needed or should be privy to-

Jaskier nodded.

Fuck.

“You don’t have to.”

“Oh you say that like its sooooo easy Geralt. You don’t have to. Like I can just will it away! Well were not all paragon of self-control like you, Geralt! If I could fuck without spending in the opening act I certainly would!” His fingers dug into the fabric of his shirt. “It’s just so much.” He muttered sullenly.

He focused on Jaskier’s shoulder and tried not to think too much about it. The damp rag held loosely in his hand.

“It’ll get easier when you’re older.” He remembered his overeager youth. Certainly not as intense as Jaskier’s but he hadn’t been an overly sensitive bard. Hadn’t been an empath dealing with feeling both his and his partner’s pleasure.

He held the rag over the outside of his hip and waited for a nod before touching it down.

“It doesn’t seem like it.” He pouted. He really didn’t need him making that face while he washed his spend off.

This was really not the kind of conversation he wanted to have right now. He didn’t want to talk about Jaskier’s sex life ever. Since he’d never be a part of it. But he certainly didn’t want to talk about it right now. When he was trying very hard to feel anything but interested.

He wet the rag and wrung it out again trying not to breathe too deeply. The smell was everywhere.

“Prostitutes don’t care.” He pointed out.

If anyone knew how to deal with the over eagerness of youth it would be professionals. Practice with a nonjudgmental partner might help too. One he wasn't desperate to make happy. Next time they had money they could go. 

“Ugh.” Jaskier buried his face in Geralt’s shirt. He took a deep breath to calm himself which was a mistake. Jaskier was everywhere. “Nothing but respect for the profession. It’s definitely saved me from a few sleepless nights but why would you pay for sex?”

“Not all of us have quite so easy a time finding willing company.”

“Folks are plenty interested in you. You’re just picky.” He snorted. “Yet another mystery to ponder.”

He rolled his eyes. It wasn’t a mystery. He touched the inside of Jaskier’s knee and after hearing his permission lifted his leg up. He’d already washed everything he could reach with Jaskier curled up like that.

Jaskier was humming. His chest always hummed, even in his sleep, but normally it was too quiet to be notable unless it was pressed up against him. He hadn’t ever heard anyone else make that noise before, but he’d rarely been close enough to notice it on someone else either.

He’d never met an empath. That could have been the source of the humming. Or his soothsaying. Or just a feature of bards. He didn’t know enough of any of them to know which it might be. Or if it was something else entirely.

It vaguely reminded him of the cats Jaskier would sometimes pet. The noise they made when he scratched their necks. It was a nice noise.

He lowered Jaskier’s leg and pulled the blanket over his uncovered torso. It was probably just a kind of self-soothing. Like how Jaskier bounced his legs or rubbed his shirt between his fingers.

He stood and dumped the basin outside. It smelled like an awful mix of Jaskier and that woman. He was glad to have it gone.

The humming was louder when he got back. Jaskier smiled uncomfortably at him from the bed.

“Joining me?” He asked, smile strained.

The room smelled like some terrible combination of both of them. Sleeping next to Jaskier was out of the question. He was already half hard and it’d only get worse if Jaskier was pressed up against him like every night.

He’d promised no one was going to touch Jaskier tonight. That included him.

He grabbed a blanket from their bag and settled on the floor.

The humming didn’t sound as nice as it had earlier.

“Um? What are you doing? The bed’s fine.”

“Sleeping.” He was surprised the bard was still awake. He’d been dead on his feet earlier.

“Oh well.” The bed creaked and his bare feet tapped the floor. “Can I join you?” He shuffled over towards him. Geralt sat up.

“No.” Why the hell did Jaskier want to sleep on the floor? He stopped advancing. Next to him by the fire was enough for the bard when it was warm. They didn’t have to share a bedroll. Didn’t have to share a bed. He couldn’t share a bed. Not tonight. “Go to bed.”

Jaskier’s eyes were frantically searching him but it was far too dark for him to make anything out.

“You know I don’t like sleeping alone.” Jaskier stepped forward and knelt in front of him. “Is this cause you’re still turned on? Cause I know how to fix that.” He gave his trademark grin and wink.

It looked hollow.

_You don’t like me that way Jaskier._ Even now he didn’t smell interested. _Don’t do this to me. You know how I feel. Don’t play with me like this._

“Do you want to work me open slowly and spear me on your cock? I’m game.” Jaskier’s hand reached out to touch his leg.

What the fuck was he saying? A sickening horror bloomed in his gut.

Jaskier cringed. He pulled his hand back without touching. “Ok you don’t like that- that’s fine. Hand job? What’s one little hand job between friends right?”

“I’m not touching you Jaskier.” Did Jaskier really think he owed him sex just because he was aroused? Who taught him that? He’d kill them.

A full body flinch seized Jaskier. The recovered smile looked broken. “Blow job then? I won’t use my hands and you don’t have to touch me and I’ll be quiet – I know you like it quiet-, and you’ll feel better and we can-”

“I’m not having sex with you Jaskier.”

The humming turned into an unpleasant buzz filling the room. He was shaking with it.

“That’s fine.” He said in a voice that was not fine. “Whatever you want. I’ll do whatever you want just – just.” He covered his ears and curled up.

“Jaskier?”

He didn’t respond. The buzzing got louder. There was a terrible melody clear in it now.

It didn’t sound self-soothing anymore. He moved next to his side.

“Jaskier?” Nothing. “Jaskier!”

He pressed harder against his ears. Fingers digging into the soft skin. Trying to block out the noise. The noise he was making.

Geralt covered his hands with his.

Jaskier inhaled like he just remembered how. The buzzing got quieter.

“Jaskier?” He whispered.

“Please don’t let go.” He begged.

“Okay.” He said. “Okay.”

The buzzing softened into humming.

Jaskier was sinking into sleep.

“Bed.” He told him.

“Only if you come with.” He mumbled nuzzling into his hand.

“Yeah. Alright.” He picked Jaskier up and set him in the bed climbing in after him.

Jaskier turned and snuggled into his chest. Slipped a hand under his shirt. Long calloused fingers settling over his ribs. He draped and arm over Jaskier. Recited Vesemir’s lectures about ghouls and harpies.

The humming relaxed into its comforting purr.

_Why would you offer that? Why would you say that? Why? Why Jaskier?_

His arm tightened around Jaskier’s waist.

“Don’t do that again.”

“Don’t do that again.” He repeated mockingly into his collar bone. “Don’t go all black veiny after too many potions. Don’t complain about the fire being too bright after Cat. Piss off Geralt.”

His face scrumpled. They were not on the same page. He had no idea what tangent Jaskier was on.

“Don’t offer,” He grit his teeth, “Sex. Like that.”

“Oh I’m sorry. Did I offend your _delicate Witcher sensibilities_? Do you need proper courting with flowers and meeting the parents and wedding rings?”

His hand moved up from around his waist to grip the back of his neck firmly. Forcing him to look up at him. “I will put you over my knee and get the belt Jaskier.” He threatened.

“Jokes on you- I’m into that!” Blue eyes grey scaled in the darkness glared up at him.

“No you’re not.” The tiny inward curl of his shoulder confirming it. “Do you even like sex Jaskier?”

“Of course I do!” He answered too quickly.

“Don’t lie.”

“I don’t care about qwent either but I play it because you enjoy it and I don’t hear you getting all up in arms about that!” He wiggled in his grasp but didn’t move away. “Let me tell you I get more out of a round in bed than I get out of a round of gwent!”

“And what _exactly_ do you get out of it?”

Jaskier’s hand flung out. Smacking him incidentally on the jaw. “A happy and willing bedpartner! Unlike you right now, Mr. Still frustrated after jerking off!”

_It’s because you smell like me. How every time I get a whiff of me on you I can’t help but imagine having put that scent there. You kneeling for me. My hands running through soft down of your hair. You smelling of Dandelion-joy and watermelon-lust all for me. Because of me._

“Just let me suck your dick so we can go to sleep already!” Jaskier snapped.

“No.” He snarled. Sitting up and dislodging the offending bard from his chest before the images of doing exactly that could take hold. “Stop trying to pay me in sex for sleeping with you!”

They froze. Grey scale eyes wide and staring up at him from the mattress. Listening to the jackrabbit of Jaskier’s heart. A calloused hand still holding his ribcage.

_He can’t sleep alone. Not won’t. Can’t._

“Fuck.” Someone whispered. “That’s exactly what you’re doing.”

“That’s not-“ His elbows rested on his knees as he buried his head in his hands. “Well not the only reason. Sometimes I just want my partner to be happy! Sex makes most people happy! Shut up. Stop judging me. I’m an adult fully capable of making decisions!”

“Jaskier.” He plead. “Don’t offer sex when all you want it to be held.”

The bed creaked as he flopped onto his back. The back of his hand still surreptitiously resting on his ribcage. “You know sex is usually a pre-requisite for sharing a bed with most folks. I’m not fucking going to lie and promise you that. I don’t owe you that.”

“Don’t do it with me.”

The quiet hum of Jaskier’s chest and soft breathing filled the space.

“Yeah alright.” The hand on his ribs moved to pat his shoulder. “Sorry I freaked you out.”

“Shitty apology.”

“Like you’re any better at them. Lay down. I’m exhausted.”

He rolled to the side. Away from Jaskier. The bard’s cool skin plastered over his warm back the next moment.

“I would suck your dick you know. It’s not a trial.”

“You’re not even attracted to me.”

He made a confused grumble. Arm riding up his shirt to hold one of his pectorals. “Guess I gotta start with flowers then.”

“The fuck are you talking about?”

“Nothing dear heart. Nothing at all.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You know the upside to rewriting this for where it landed in the story? This time Jaskier was like. Oh shit gotta court this witcher like a 1120's lady! That'll be fun to incorporate going forward. If all goes well and my brain doesn't decide i need to add something then yall are getting a very long Kaer Morhen Chapter next.


	9. Pillow forts

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Long chapter. We've got several references to Geralt/Eskel. Sorry if that squicks you out.

Winter was going to be long this year.

Lambert, Eskel, and Vesemir were there. So at least he had Eskel. He’d probably murder Lambert otherwise.

Any excitement at his return was quickly soured by the extra medallion he carried. Even if Vesemir was really the only one of them who’d known Remus at all.

Although Vesemir had apparently been in a foul mood before he’d arrived.

“Yeah I think his lay in Redania must have dumped him. Acting the same way he did after he stopped going to Kerack.” Lambert said playing another archer.

“Must have really liked them too. He seems worse than last year.”

“He was insufferable the year before that. Neither of you asses showed up! I was trapped here with him and Gwen!”

“I’m amazed the keep still stands.”

He grunted in agreement.

Vesemir walked in.

Fuck them.

He sat down on the other side of the room laying out maps and papers. Ignoring them.

He let Lambert win that round. He’d burned most of his cards already. If he read it right he could still with the game.

With how everyone had been avoiding Vesemir and Vesemir had been ignoring everyone else they hadn’t spent much time as a group outside of training.

It probably wouldn’t improve with time either if he’d been like this for the last two winters. Best to ask now.

“Have the necrophages seemed.” He hesitated. “Weaker recently?”

“Drowners on Skellige got extra teeth if you need a challenge.” Lambert said.

Eskel shrugged. Vesemir continued ignoring them.

“How about the hybrids?”

“What about them?” Eskel asked.

“They’ve been more aggressive.” It seemed like it at least. That Griffin that attacked them at camp for no clear reason, harpies that came out of the woodworks to maul them, and those flocks of Siren’s chased after them the moment they’d approached the coast. They were never going back to the goddamn coast.

“Noticed any change in the specters?” Vesemir asked.

The all turned towards him. That was essentially the first thing he’d said outside of orders or training since he’d arrived.

It was hard to tell. Specters were always annoying. But he could usually tell when they were approaching one well ahead of time since Jaskier got crabby when they were near. Even when they weren’t full on Acrimonies. Which was annoying. But finding their remains was easier since Jaskier was prone to tripping over them.

They hadn’t gotten a jump on him in a long time. But fighting them was still a pain. Plus the bard always got headaches around them- making for unpleasant company.

He shrugged.

Vesemir turned back to his maps.

“Woah woah! You can’t just say that and then go back to ignoring us! What the fuck!” Lambert stood up screeching his chair.

Must have realized he was going to lose.

“Necrophages, spectors and hybrids are all chaos borne.” He explained unhelpfully. “You threw Lambert across the courtyard yesterday with Aard. Was that intentional?”

“No.” But it was satisfying.

Lambert glared his disbelief at him.

“Elaborate.”

He frowned. “It was like,” Where was Jaskier when you needed him? Ah right. At the Countess de Stael’s home. Where he’d gone for the winter. “Using a hand pump expecting a trickle and getting a flood.”

He’d pulled just as hard as normal. It had just given more than he’d expected. A lot more. He’d been exhausted afterwards.

“Hmm.”

“So Geralt’s chaos is off?” Eskel asked carefully. “Or it’s off wherever he’s been traveling?”

“When did you start noticing it? The monsters.”

He tried to remember. It had been a while. There were the sirens that attacked them, loads of Griffins, that Cemetaur which was no tougher than how water hags used to be.

The griffin that came out of the woods to attack them. That was probably the first one. But he didn’t remember that town’s name.

“After I left Dol Blathanna. Griffin came out of nowhere and attacked us.”

“Us?” Lambert grinned. Smelling blood. Fuck. He hadn’t planned on mentioning Jaskier for that very reason.

“Is that the one the song’s about?” Eskel asked. Fuck. They’d heard the song?

“It mentioned elves.” Vesemir stated.

“I didn’t kill them!” He snapped. “It’s a shitty song -a pack of lies and awful puns!”

He wouldn’t let them think he’d become the kind of person who would slaughter elves for no damn reason. The aftermath of Renfri had been brutal enough.

“Hey that shitty song got me a lot of free drinks!” Lambert barked.

“Inn’s haven’t been charging me as much either.” Eskel concurred. “Or kicking me out for no reason as often.”

He sunk back in his chair. It wasn’t a _good_ song but it had changed his fortune. His armor was nice now, he got baths occasionally, and it had been a while since he’d gone to bed hungry; at least in town anyway. The roads were fickle beasts and Jaskier couldn’t go as long between meals.

He was pretty sick of hearing it though. It was still stuck in his head. He’d caught himself mumbling it last night before bed.

“Did the Elves give you anything? Something that you don’t have now?” Vesemir demanded. They all quieted under his furious gaze.

Vesemir didn’t look like that. Not unless something terrible had happened. Was happening.

The sour smell of fear hit his nostrils. He knew some of it was his. But by the way Eskel and Lambert had shrunk in on themselves and were staring at him said it wasn’t just him either.

“No- I gave them the coin I had and they let us go. They didn’t give me anything.” He glanced at Eskel for guidance but he looked just as confused as he felt.

“Who was the other person? Did they give them something?” Vesemir stood. Chair screeching over the wood. They all flinched.

“A bard. They- they gave him a lute? With flowers on it.” Fuck. Had the lute been cursed? Now that he thought about it the monsters behaved oddly when Jaskier was nearby. Or. Well. He’d left him in town to go hunting several times and he’d still noticed the effects. It had to have one hell of a range.

Fuck fuck fuck. He’d left Jaskier with a cursed lute that drew hybrids to tear him apart at the seams from miles away and who knew what else. Fuck.

It was snowing. The pass filled the day after he’d arrived. He might be able to get down the mountain by himself but he’d have to leave Roach behind. But he couldn’t leave Jaskier with a damn cursed lute to get himself killed with because Geralt had been too dumb to realize.

“Where did the bard train?”

“What?” He asked jerked from his thoughts. “I don’t know.” He probably did know but he couldn’t remember right now. Not with Vesemir growling at him. Not with Jaskier potentially being killed because of him.

“Where was he from?” Vesemir was baring his teeth at him.

Eskel had moved to stand behind him. He appreciated that. “I don’t know! Somewhere in the northern realms.” Jaskier didn’t talk about his family or where he was from. His accent said northern realms. Unless it was as fake as his Rivian accent. Which it might be. Jaskier seemed good at copying accents.

“What’s his name?” Vesemir was towering over him now. Crushing the back of his chair.

“What the fuck is this about Vesemir!” Lambert screamed.

“Not you!” He snapped. “Name Geralt!”

“Jaskier!”

He was shaking. Fuck he was shaking. The trials were supposed to root out emotions. Mute them so they could always function. He was shaking and terrified.

Jaskier was fucking right about that rumor being bullshit at least.

Vesemir leaned back, grip on the chair softening. “You’re sure? It wasn’t some prissy ass mile long name like the one you wanted?”

“Jaskier. His name is Jaskier.”

“No last name?” Vesemir’s heart was slowing. They all relaxed slightly.

He shook his head. “Just Jaskier.”

“Is he educated? Can he read and write?”

He nodded. Jaskier’s handwriting was usually near illegible to anyone but him unless he was actively trying to make it nice. ‘My brain is faster than the ink so it gets a bit hard to follow sometimes.’ He’d explained once.

“A runaway noble?”

He hesitated. Jaskier certainly enjoyed the finer things in life. Wore bright clothes and ate good food. He complained plenty and knew all the lords and ladies names from Skellige to the Dragon Mountains.

But nobles were prissy things who wouldn’t be caught dead camping in a swamp or sleeping in a stable, eating food thrown on the bar floor. Jaskier liked camping for all his complaining about it. Acted like, to some degree, he’d done it his whole life. He bought fine, impractical clothing but he didn’t have a lot. Didn’t demand Geralt carry a wardrobe for him like a noble might. It was important bards look pretty he’d said. It was important bards didn’t accidentally insult their host by using the wrong name or title he’d explained.

A merchant’s son made more sense. Taught how to impress both nobility and commoners. Walk among either without standing out too much or fitting in. He enjoyed the finer things without expecting them. Traveled between towns as a merchant, selling goods, like how he sold Geralt’s skills. It would explain why he was so good with geography. Knew which inns were shit. Cause he’d grew up wandering between them.

Between barding and his preference for company regardless of marital status or gender there was plenty of reason he might not be allowed his last name.

He shook his head.

Vesemir let go of his chair and turned away. He breathed out.

He allowed himself a glance out the window. The wind was strong and the snow heavy. He couldn’t leave tonight. Fuck.

“What the actual fuck Vesemir?” Lambert summarized nicely.

“I thought.” Vesemir started. He glared down at his maps. “Doesn’t matter. That lute is probably one of the most valuable items you’ll ever find, even if you live to my age.”

“Really?” Eskel asked for him.

Vesemir nodded.

“Is it cursed?” He blurted out. Fuck. He needed to be better controlled. But he might have signed Jaskier’s death warrant.

Vesemir shrugged in a way that wasn’t comforting in the slightest. “Not the kind we deal with.” He sat back down.

He stood knocking the chair over. “What the fuck does that mean!” Eskel’s hand held his shoulder.

Vesemir looked at him placidly. “It’s not chaos made, its order.”

“Huh?” Lambert huffed.

“Oh.” He said, relieved. Jaskier would like that. Jaskier liked those old elven beliefs.

Vesemir shifted some papers. “The elves believe the world is shaped by two waring forces. Order and Chaos. The world trends to chaos, as your rooms demonstrate adequately.” They frowned. Vesemir always complained about the state of their rooms. They were their rooms. If they wanted to leave their clothes on the floor they could.

“Necrophages are almost pure chaos. Destroyed by order, which would explain them being weaker. Hybrids were fused together with magic, sources of order would tear at the seams, which is why they’d be more aggressive. They’re in pain.”

“You asked about specters too.” Eskel pointed out.

“They use chaos to stay here, resisting the natural order of life and death. A source would upset them. Maybe weaken them. Maybe make them more aggressive.”

“And you think the lute’s a source of order?” Lambert asked skeptically.

“No.” He sighed gathering up his papers. Apparently giving up for the night. “I think it was made by one.”

That hung in the air. None of them new what to do with it.

“You’re talking about a listener.” Eskel said eventually.

“Destiny in-fucking-carnate.” Lambert whispered.

Elder speak called listeners sources of order. Everyone else called them destiny incarnate. It was probably the closest translation.

“Fuck.” He said.

“The elves haven’t had a listener in centuries.” Eskel pointed out.

“Elves live so much longer than humans because they’re more ordered than humans. Something made by a listener, a source, would last centuries. Or they might have inherited it.”

“Stolen it you mean?” Lambert scoffed.

“Why would they give us something like that?” It didn’t make sense. Why give them something truly so priceless?

“You said he’s a bard. They used to believe stories were the highest form of order. The only true way to change the world. Maybe that was their way of pleading for a better fate.”

No wonder Jaskier liked the Elder religion then. If it thought bards were so important.

Lambert barked out a laugh. “And your bard used it to change our fate instead!”

“Fuck.”

Lambert leaped the table to put him in a headlock. Messing up his hair. The last braid Jaskier wove into it felt out. “You should bring him next year! Bet he’s better fucking company than you assholes!”

“If you thought the instrument was the cause why ask about the bard?” Eskel asked from his side, hand still warming his shoulder.

Lambert snorted into his ear. “Cause Vesemir thought he might be the listener obviously. Although it would have been easier to ask if you’re a cradle robber. You a cradle robber Geralt?”

He did feel that way sometimes. Jaskier would say something and remind him how _young_ he was. They hadn't done anything. Would never do anything. But he felt guilty about it sometimes. For looking at all. But that wasn’t what Lambert was really asking.

“He’s twenty one.”

Lambert smacked his chest. “Double the age of any listener I’ve heard of!”

“The oldest was fourteen.” Eskel pointed out. The last one. She’d made it to fourteen. Been fourteen for sixteen years before she’d finally been killed.

Vesemir was studying him again. His skin itched with it. “You should.” He said rolling up the last parchment.

They stilled and stared at him as he walked to the door. “Should what?” Eskel managed after a few moments.

“Bring him next year.” The door closed behind him with a deafening thud.

The all stood there. Eskel’s hand on his shoulder. Lambert’s arm hooked around his neck. Listening to Vesemir walk away.

“Vesemir’s looking for the listener.” Eskel muttered.

He turned to him. “Why would Vesemir give a shit about the listener?”

Lambert let go of him and kicked the fallen chair breaking off a leg. “Cause he’s a fucking liar!” He continued cursing beating the chair to splinters. “For the best the mutagens were lost my ass!”

“What?” His ears were ringing. That couldn’t be it.

They all agreed. It was for the best the methods of making Witchers was lost to them. They agreed. No more children would be buried in these halls. They’d all agreed.

The other schools could limp along but the wolves were done.

“That can’t be it.” Eskel stammered. His hand digging into his shoulder.

“What the fuck else could it be? They know the hearts of every fucking person alive and dead. He wants them to recover the goddamn mutagens!” He ripped one of the legs off and began beating the chair. “Wants to turn more brats into goddamn monsters!” The wood shattered in his hand. Blood dripped around the splinters.

He restrained Lambert arms tucked under his armpits hauling him backward. Eskel grabbed his hands inspecting the damage.

“I won’t do it! I didn’t ask for this and I’m not fucking doing it! I’ll kill the goddamn listener myself if I have to!” Lambert howled.

“We won’t let him!” He hissed as Lambert kicked him in the shin.

“No more wolves! We agreed!” Eskel promised.

“No more wolves Lambert. We won’t let him.” He squeezed him tighter. Lambert was shaking. The salt of tears welling on his eyes.

“No more wolves.” Lambert agreed.

They stayed there. Holding Lambert as he steadied.

He yanked his hand out of Eskel’s who’d been pulling splinters out. “I can do that. Put me down.”

He did. Lambert fled.

Lambert was going to have nightmares tonight. Wake up screaming. They all probably would.

The keep was their home. It was also where they’d been made. Being home brought its own set of nightmares.

Yet they still came home. That probably said something about how desperate they were for company. For somewhere to belong.

“Do you think that’s actually what Vesemir’s doing?”

“I don’t know.”

“We should ask. Give him a chance to explain. There’s probably a reasonable explanation.”

“Right.” He couldn’t think of one though.

The blizzard howl outside.

“It’s a little funny.” Eskel commented in a tone that said it wasn’t. “Killing a kid to save other kids.”

“Lambert wouldn’t. He couldn’t.”

“No. He’d just kill Vesemir.”

“He’d try.” Geralt sighed. “We agreed. No more wolves.”

“No more wolves.”

“Think Lambert will get any sleep tonight?”

“Think any of us will?” Eskel leaned against the table. “First one to wake up screaming wins.”

Eskel looked tired. They always looked tired when they arrived. He didn’t feel tired. He’d had so few nightmares lately. Now he was back here and he knew that’d change.

He’d dream of Jaskier tonight. A Griffin probably. Maybe the flock of sirens. He wouldn’t have Jaskier’s gentle humming to ease him back to sleep either.

He’d wake up cold and alone in the keep that made him.

He’d slept alone for near to a century. That shouldn’t make him anxious.

“Eskel.” Fuck no he wasn’t doing this. Later in the winter he could ask. They could have sex because it was a long miserable winter with just your hand for company and they’d fall asleep in the same bed and he could enjoy that then. He couldn’t fucking ask after a goddamn week.

Except he’d told Jaskier not to do that. Not to ask for sex when he wanted company. When he just wanted to be touched. To be held.

Eskel was staring at him. Pronounced bags under his eyes.

He grit his teeth and looked away. If he was going to be pathetic enough to ask he wasn’t going to look at Eskel when he did it. “Sleep with me.”

Eskel made a noise.

“Just sleep. I just.” Fuck he couldn’t do this. He’d deal with the goddamn nightmares. “Never mind.” He fled out the doors.

Or he would have. If Eskel hadn’t grabbed him.

“Yeah. Yeah. My room’s warmer.”

“Your room always smells like the kitchen. And Lambert burned dinner.”

He scrunched his nose. “Point. Grab some blankets from my room and sleep in yours?”

“Hmm.”

He followed Eskel guided by the hand around his wrist.

They passed Lamberts room. Heard him struggling. They looked at each other.

There was no way Lambert would let them help. No way he’d join them. Too raw for comfort.

Jaskier would know how to help. Jaskier would probably rile him into angry sex, go a few rounds, and then gentle his exhausted form into comfort. Bandage the raw wounds of Lambert’s heart with warmth.

He couldn’t do that. He cared for Lambert but he couldn’t do that. He couldn’t be what Lambert needed right now. Eskel couldn’t either. They both knew it.

They walked on.

“Man you seriously just leave your shit everywhere don’t you?” Eskel laughed, arms full with blankets.

“Hmmm.” He said around the pillows Eskel had forced him to carry. Why did Eskel sleep with this many pillows? It was too many pillows.

They dumped it all on the bed.

“We might have too many pillows.”

“Hm.”

“Or,” His eyes glinted with something he hadn’t seen in decades. “Maybe we don’t have enough.”

He felt a spark in his chest. He hadn’t felt that in a long time. “Are you suggesting?” He trailed off. A grin building on his face.

“Pillow fort?”

“Pillow fort.”

He surveyed the room. The chairs he had would be good support structures but they needed something taller. They weren’t short. Not anymore. “I’ll go get the polearms from the armory. And more blankets.”

“Smart. I’ll start with the bed. Don’t take too long.”

He managed to find a few polearms and spears in the armory. They didn’t have many, they weren’t exactly a worthwhile weapons for Witchers. But they’d been trained how to fight against them. They’d make good supports to raise the canopy. There were also some old threadbare sheets he’d managed to pull out of old rooms and some half-filled pillows.

Eskel had tied the thinner blankets together so they could use them as rungs to drape the nicer blankets over. He’d also set the pillows around the bed as walls. They could make them taller now.

He chucked the pillows at him.

Eskel make a startled noise. He grabbed the pillows. “These are really flat.”

“Put them under the good ones. To raise the walls.”

He nodded. “Tuck the polearms into the chairs so they’ll stay up when we tie the blankets to them.”

He moved the chairs to the head of the bed and jammed the polearms between the joints so it’d stay. Eskel made a satisfied huff and climbed out of the bed to do his side, tossing him one end of the tied blankets.

“If we angle the spears at the foot of the bed we can get some extra height without making it just a canopy bed.”

He tossed Eskel a spear and jammed his in between the mattress and wood.

“Can you angle it any lower?”

“Won’t be stable then.”

“Fair.” Eskel tossed him the end of the tied blankets. He knotted them around the last spear tip.

He frowned at the remaining blankets. “None of them are big enough.” They wouldn’t stretch over the trapezoid they’d made.

“That’s why you grabbed more blankets. Tie the shitty ones together and we can bisect the whole thing before putting the top on.”

Eskel always had the best ideas. He knotted two together, secured it to his end, and tossed the rest over.

He picked the big green blanket for the bottom half. Another Witcher had brought it back a decade or more ago and lost it to him during a keep-wide Gwent tournament. It was thick enough to cut out the room’s draft without blocking the morning light completely. They were probably going to be late to morning practice anyway.

Eskel didn’t seem to share his concern picking the thickest blanket the structure could support for the top half.

Eskel climbed in having discarded his boots earlier. He tossed him the leftover blankets to set up while pulling his off.

“Stinky feet!” Eskel jeered at him. “Stinky feet!”

“Like yours are any better! I can smell them from here!”

“Yours are worse!”

He tackled Eskel testing the forts sturdiness as they wrestled getting increasingly tangled in the blanket pile. When Eskel finally shoved him off they were both breathless with laughter.

“It’s still standing!”

“Glad to see all these years fixing the keep wasn’t a total waste.”

“Right.” Eskel laughed. He reached up and poked the drooping middle of the blanket. “When was the last time we did this?”

It had been a few decades. He couldn’t remember exactly when. Before the cats attacked certainly.

“It’s been too long.”

“Yeah. It has.” He untangled some of the blankets to pull them over his shoulders. “Good idea Geralt.”

“Fort was your idea.”

“Yeah but this” He waved his hand vaguely, “Was yours.” His eyes drooped closed.

The path must have been hard this year for him. Harder than he’d let on.

He was brushing his knuckles over the scarred skin of Eskel’s face before he even realized he’d moved.

His eyes cracked open and he gave a small smile. It was all that kept him from running out into the storm.

“I like this. It’s nice to get to do this,” He leaned into the touch slightly. “Without having to do the whole need to bone stick.”

“We can still do that too right? Winter gets long.”

“Yeah. Of course.” His right hand snuck out from the blankets and found his. “But it’s nice to do this too. Remember that we’re friends first.”

He squeezed his hand. “You’re my best friend Eskel.”

“Thought that was Roach.”

He grumbled.

Eskel snickered.

They laid there facing each other, safe and warm in the little fortress that smelled like both of them, and breathed.

He wouldn’t have nightmares about Eskel tonight at least or the trials either, safe in the fort. He’d still might have nightmares about Jaskier. But at least he wouldn’t wake up alone.

“Geralt?” Eskel mumbled half the syllables of his name. “What changed?”

There was one very brilliantly dressed answer in his head. “Didn’t want to be alone tonight. Realized I didn’t have to be.”

“The bard teach you that?”

“Hm.”

“I want to meet him. Someday.”

“You’d steal him in a heartbeat. With your nice personality? Ugh. He’d be all over you.”

Eskel snorted. “Yeah like my _nice personality_ would overcome your perfect ass.”

“Fuck he’d have so many comments about that sentence. I’d never get him back. You’re exactly his type.”

“And what type is that? Scarred? Ugly? Monstrous?”

“Good. You’re _good_. That’s exactly his type.” He shivered. “And don’t let him hear you say that shit. He’ll make you regret even thinking it.”

“How?”

“Poetry mainly. Lots of poetry.”

“The horror.”

“Hm.”

“Geralt?”

“Hm?”

“What are we going to do about the listener?”

“Won’t matter. When the kid awakens they’ll get locked up in some city before we can turn our horses around.”

“It’s gotta suck. Being fourteen forever.”

“Getting stuck at ten would be worse.”

“Yeah.” The year of the trials. “Yeah it would be.”

Eskel yawned and sank deeper into the pillows. “Best age to get stuck at?”

“This one seems pretty nice.” He said shifting into the blankets.

“Ugh. Softie.”

“Hm.” He agreed listening to the steady rhythm of Eskel’s heart falling asleep.

It was okay to be soft here. Just for now.

He wasn’t sure when exactly he fell asleep. But he knew when he woke up.

“Lambert wins.” Eskel groaned smooshing several pillows over his ears.

“Fuck.”

His howling screams were echoing down the halls. His bones ached and his veins burned in sympathy.

They laid there and listened unable to stop listening. Unable to stop remembering.

The screams cut of suddenly. He must have woken up.

Alone.

All alone.

“I can’t do this.” He swung out of the fort feet touching the cold floor.

“Do what?”

“Leave him alone.”

“He’ll try to rip out your throat if you approach him right now.”

“I don’t care.” He was at the door.

“Wait.” He stopped hand almost touching the handle. “I don’t think we have enough blankets.”

He turned back to him. If anything they had too many blankets.

Eskel was hanging the blankets over the sides further enclosing the bed. Draping them over the chairs. Folding them under the pillows to raise the walls higher.

“Oh.” He realized. “We don’t have enough blankets.”

“Didn’t Lambert get some nice silk ones a few years back?”

“He did. And he didn’t pay up when I won the game earlier.”

“I think you’d better go collect then.”

“Right.”

Lambert’s reflective eyes snapped to him the second he opened the door. The room stunk with fear and anger.

“What the fuck are you doing in here?” He screamed. “Get the fuck out of my room!”

He yanked all the blankets he could off the bed and turned back to the door. “Need more blankets.”

“What the fuck! Get your own damn blankets!” Lambert tackle dived at him and he sidestepped rapidly to avoid ducking out the door.

He was nearly sprinting down the hall to avoid Lambert catching and murdering him.

He couldn’t help pausing after he opened the door though. Taking in the fort. It was beautiful.

Lambert jumped him then. Nails scratching lines into his skin. Head smashing into his. “Give them back!”

Ow.

“Got the blankets?” Eskel said poking his head out between the folds.

“Hm.” He agreed carrying the blankets and Lambert to the fort.

“What the fuck is that?” Lambert gripped him slightly tighter like he was scared of the monument they’d made.

“Fort.” He helpfully explained. He handed Eskel the blankets and bent over to climb in.

Lambert scrambled off him away from the fort. He glanced back.

Scared. Confused. Hidden under that hissing exterior.

“Think we should let him in?” He asked Eskel.

“Hm I don’t know.”

“You took my blankets!”

“I won the game.”

“We didn’t bet my goddamn blankets you fucking prick!”

“Hm.” He climbed in. “They’ve been claimed by the law of forts.”

Lambert scrambled in past them knocking a few pillows to the floor as he did. “My blankets! So I can come in your fucking fort!”

“Fine.” He sighed wearily letting Lambert rip a blanket from his hands, cocooning himself in it. He laid down facing away from them.

Eskel gave him a small smile and shook his head. He flopped back into the bed, not bothering with the blankets yet.

The storm still howled outside. He laid down between them staring up at the soft ceiling.

“So how’d that story actually go? If the song is wrong.” Eskel asked poking him.

“Was in Posada looking for work. Bard was singing a terrible song about fake monsters. Then he noticed me.”

“Yeah Witchers are kind of hard to miss.”

“He didn’t know I was a Witcher. He asked me for a review.”

“How didn’t he know you were a Witcher?”

“He’s a moron. Told me not to keep a man with bread in his pants waiting.”

Lambert snorted.

“Told him they weren’t real. He asked me how I knew.”

“You’re kidding right?”

“I thought you said he was smart!” Lambert blurted out. Turning slightly to them.

“I said he was educated.” He was smart. He was also an idiot.

“Yeah, those aren’t the same thing. You were educated Lambert. I’d never call you smart.” Eskel teased.

Lambert chucked a pillow at him.

“Then he finally realized. Announced it to the whole tavern. Got a job from it.”

“Guess that’s one way to get work.”

“So I left to hunt down their devil. And he followed.”

“A devil?” Lambert snickered. “Right.”

“A sylvan. Goatlike.”

“Oooh. His hooves, bleating. That’s what you meant by shitty puns.”

He nodded. Maybe those weren’t technically puns but the grin Jaskier got every time he sung those parts pissed him off just as much as his actual puns did.

“We found him, fought, and got knocked out by his elven friends.”

“You know this sounds less and less like a victory for you. Sounds like you got your ass kicked.” Lambert grinned ruefully.

“We did.” That part was even in the song.

“Woke up tied to the bard. He antagonized them and they broke his lute.” That was the first time he’d felt Jaskier’s humming now that he thought about it. Tied back to back.

“I managed to convince them to let us go. Filavandrel, the king of the Elves, gave Jaskier his lute then as a replacement for the broken one.”

He knew now how valuable that lute was. Unless Jaskier also knew what Filavandrel’s lute was. Which seemed unlikely. But he did protect it over his own life. So maybe he did.

Or maybe he was just an idiot. What good was an instrument without a bard to play it anyway?

Lambert gave an impressed whistle. “He told them off and they still gave him a lute? What I wouldn’t give to learn that trick.”

“You could always try being less of an asshole. That might work.”

“Piss off.”

Now that he knew what the lute was he could recall how reverent Filavandrel had been when he gave it to Jaskier. Like it was sacred. He supposed it was.

“We left and I told the bard that we were to part ways.”

“How’d he take that?”

“He said no.” In many more words. Lambert snorted. Geralt pulled the blankets up and leaned back into the bed with a yawn.

“He said no. Fuck that’s great. And you didn’t just ditch him?”

“Tried.” But not very hard. “He’s a goddamn octopus.”

“Well if he’s such a problem I’ll take him off your hands.” Lambert suggested. “Might get some fucking thanks for this shitty ass job.”

“Don’t hold your breath. He said _I_ was the bard’s type.”

“Ugly? Yeah guess I’m out of luck then.” Eskel smacked him with a pillow.

“ _Nice._ So yeah you are.”

Geralt closed his eyes chasing sleep. Jaskier would love all of them. He knew it. He’d be ecstatic to come here. If either one of them had the courage to ask.

“I’m going home this winter. To Kaer Morhen.” He’d explained.

“Oh! “ His eyes had lit up. “Where is it? What’s it like?”

“It’s in the Blue Mountains.” Not that that was helpful. It was a long range. “Its home.”

He’d opened his mouth like he wanted to ask _can I come?_ Like he asked about every hunt.

He might have said yes.

But his eyes had drifted over his shoulder then. Glazed. Focused far far away. “Meet me at Oxenfurt in the spring?”

“Alright.” He’d said instead of _come with me_ like he wanted to.

There would be other winters.

Jaskier would love all of them. Eskel, Lambert, even Vesemir. That didn’t mean they would love him.

It seemed like they would though.

Lambert poked him. “Don’t fall asleep ass. I asked you a question.” He poked him a few more times to make his point. His face scrunched. “Did you get soft?”

“He definitely got soft. Didn’t you see him talking about the bard?”

Lambert started tugging off his shirt. He grabbed his hands halting him.

Eskel shoved his shirt up anyway. Traitor.

“What the fuck? What happened to you?”

Eskel started poking him too.

“Stop that.” He growled.

“You’re _soft_.”

“Muscle still there. Which I’ll prove if you don’t stop poking me right now.”

Eskel stopped poking him. Instead he splayed his hand over the barrel of his chest feeling for the hard muscle underneath. “It is.” He whispered.

“Let me go! I wanna feel!” Lambert wiggled.

He rolled his eyes but let go. “Make a guy dinner first.”

“I did make dinner.” Lambert growled running his hands over Geralt’s abs.

“You burned dinner.”

“Foods fucking food. What the fuck?”

“Been getting more to eat.”

“Yeah I’ll say! You look like a- a- fuck what the hell?” Lambert shifted closer kneeling by his side.

He cracked his eyes open yanking Lambert down against his side. He made a noise of protest but didn’t remove his wandering hands. “Close your goddamn eyes and pretend to sleep or I’m kicking you out.”

“My blankets.” Lambert mumbled distractedly, curling into his side. His hands still running over him.

“My room.” He looked over at Eskel whose hand had stilled on his ribs. He tugged him closer, tucking him into his other side. Eskel had the sense to pull the blankets over them at least.

“The bard did this?” Eskel asked.

“Hm.” He’d done the hunting. Killing monsters. He’d worked hard. But the bard had made each hunt more valuable. Had kept their purse, or at least their stomachs, from being empty even when contracts became few and far between. “Close your eyes.”

“I’m going to kill you and take the bard.” Lambert promised. Eskel’s hand covered Lambert’s and stilling it against his pec.

“Good luck explaining that one to him.”

“Not good luck finding him given we only know his name?” Eskel questioned.

“Kill me and he’ll find you. I’m half convinced he’d fistfight death for me.” Not that the bard knew how to fistfight.

“Well yeah. Obviously.” Lambert mumbled into his bunched up shirt.

“He’d lose. He can’t fight.”

“We’ll teach him.” Eskel decided.

He thought of the town that reeked of fish. He squeezed Eskel closer. “No.”

“No?” Lambert’s heart slowed near to sleep.

“No.”

They listened to Lambert drift off.

“Why not?” Eskel whispered to him. “It’d be safer.”

“I don’t think he’d survive it. If he killed someone.” There was a steel to him, yes, and the desperate desire to do right. Help. No matter what. He wouldn’t draw a blade unnecessarily if they did teach him. Which was important. Blades were meant for killing. You had to be prepared for that eventuality. 

But all he could see when he closed his eyes was the boy who’d been nearly destroyed when he lowered the mug onto that drunkard’s head. His hands still shook sometimes when he carried mugs.

“Plus he’s clumsy. None of us would have any fingers left by the time he was done.”

Eskel chuckled before taking a more serious tone. “If that’s what you think’s best.”

“I do.”

“Alright.”

“Thank you.”

“Fuck Geralt. You can’t just say that.”

He turned and pressed a kiss to his head. “Thank you.” He repeated.

Eskel studied him. The wind slowed outside. “You love him.”

He closed his eyes. “Go to sleep Eskel.”

“Vesemir?” He stood at the doorway to his study. Maps and books and notes strewn about. He rubbed the bridge of his nose.

“What is it Geralt?”

He stared at the maps. Notes. Markings.

“You looking for the listener.” Because he could see no other option. Not with the prophecies strewn about on the floor.

 _The listener is male._ He read. _The listener will bring war the likes of which we’ve never seen and it will consume the land._ One said. _The listener is protected, shielded from our eyes._

“I am looking for a child of surprise.”

His head jerked up to Vesemir’s. Forehead creased. “What?” Vesemir scowled. “You _lost_ a child of surprise? _You?_ ”

 _Be careful with Children of Surprise. Fate will seek to reunite you. Violently if it has too._ Vesemir liked to warn.

At quick burst of laughter escaped him.

“Well it’s not like we could make them a Witcher anyway.”

“No more wolves.” Vesemir echoed.

The anxious ball in his gut unwound. “No more wolves.” He relaxed against the doorframe. “Hoping the listener will point you in the right direction to find the brat?”

“Hm.” He agreed.

“Well you’re not going to find him this winter. Come help me with lunch.”

“You’re perfectly capable of making lunch yourself.”

“I am.” He agreed. “Come on.”

_I missed you Father. We all miss you. Come back to us._

Vesemir’s face flickered. Staring at the maps longingly.

“Fine. But only because Lambert ruined dinner.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaaaand we've now hit the point where I do not have the next sections written. So the daily updates end here. Hope you've enjoyed thus far! Alrighty back to writing! Also did you notice my constant need for Geralt to be well fed and cuddled? Hm.


	10. Baths and braids

What a way to start off a season. With a job that didn’t pay.

He rolled his shoulders to dislodge the tension that had settled there. Another job another asshole.

Lute music.

It couldn’t be Jaskier. Jaskier was still at the Countesses.

Still he turned down the side street to the market. Followed the tenor to a crowded stand selling curios, fish bait and strawberries.

He crossed his arms. The boots were certainly new. They looked just as ill-suited for the path as the last pair. The outfit might have been new. Was last year’s green? He wasn’t sure. Jaskier always got frustrated with him when he got it wrong.

Jaskier opened his eyes and smiled at him. Right at him.

He approached as the song ended. Off to the side enough to avoid scaring customers. Hopefully.

“Have you no shame poet? Playing at the market like some beggar?”

His eyes glittered. “Shame? Why there is no shame in entertaining folk Witcher. And James has agreed to give me lunch for my performance. Does pride fill your belly?” He turned to a woman who’d just bought a bushel of strawberries. Flirting with her until she turned as red as the berry. She offered him one, holding it by the green. He leaned forward and bit it right out of her hand.

Her friends giggled as they fled. Jaskier chewed. Eyes tracking them as they disappeared into the crowd. Licking his lips clean of the juice.

_He’d taste like strawberries right now._

_Don’t._ He scolded himself as Jaskier’s hooded eyes flit to him.

“Want to buy one? They’re delicious.” He picked up a bushel and winked. “We could share.”

He tossed the merchant the coin and took it from his hands. Took a bite of one.

Jaskier fluttered his eyes. “Aren’t you going to share?”

“No.” He smirked as Jaskier pouted. “Buy your own bard.”

He ate another. Groaning his appreciation as Jaskier glared at him. A hand shot out to swipe one. He smacked it away.

“Careful.” He warned. A grin pulling at his face. “I might turn you in for stealing.”

The stall owner coughed. Jaskier’s eyes flicked back to him with a frown. “Do you have a room yet?”

He hm’d affirmatively. Savoring the strawberry.

“Great! I hear the bathhouse here is divine. Meet me there in – oh two hours? Now off with you Witcher! I’ve fans to adore!”

He snorted as Jaskier kicked him away. He tossed the stem at him in retaliation before turning away.

Not the worst way to start off the season.

Jaskier’s shins pressed into his rear as Jaskier lathered his back in soap. Lavender. Taken from the countess’s estate before he left. Thief.

He hooked his chin over his arms on the edge of the pool and dozed in the warm water. Jaskier chattered on. 

“You left early.” He interrupted as Jaskier washed down his back. Moving on to his hair. The room smelled like a field of dandelions.

“I finished my contract.” He dismissed, his fingers working through his hair. Tugging back and forth. “How was Kaer Morhen?”

“It was fine.” 

“Enlightening Geralt. Your descriptions never fail to take my breath away.”

The edge of his lips tugged up.

“Vesemir made an interesting suggestion.”

“Oh?” He worked the oil into his scalp. He sunk down to the warmth. It seeped into his muscles.

“Geralt.” Jaskier smacked his shoulder. “Don’t fall asleep.”

“Hn.”

“What did Vesemir say?” He moved away. Retrieving a brush and working through the tangles that had gathered in it.

Jaskier was going to like this. Excitement tickled his chest. “That your lute is special.”

“Well she is rather sexy isn’t she?”

He snorted.

“He said it was likely made by a listener.”

Jaskier’s hands stopped in his hair.

His grin grew. Awaiting the excited blabber. The overwhelming wave of dandelions and sunlight. 

“What?” Voice quiet and tight. He shifted back. Jaskier’s shins disappearing from where they’d pressed into him.

He turned his head around. Confused. “It’s an instrument of order.” He frowned. Jaskier liked those beliefs. Order. Chaos.

Why were the dandelions disappearing?

“Why would he think that?”

“The griffins. The necrophages. The-,“ Sour tang. “Why are you afraid?” He turned. Facing him fully.

“I’m not afraid.” He said too quickly. Smiled. “Except for you know the whole- owning something made by someone who starts continent sized wars!” His arms flailed. Splashing everywhere.

“Then get a new one.”

“Well I’m not going to do that! She’s an excellent lute Geralt! I wouldn’t betray her like that! She's got a story!” He tossed his head back over the rim. Staring at the ceiling.

“I thought you’d like it.” Not. Panic about it. The instrument might be valuable but it couldn't start a war. So long as no one knew what it was, it couldn't even start conflict. It was just a lute that would never rot. A lute that forgot how often it was meant to go out of tune.

It wasn't dangerous.

“Why?” His voice climbing the octaves. Water splattering onto the floor.

“Because you like elder religions.”

Jaskier let out long throaty noise. Hands running through his hair.

“The necrophages and griffins? What about them?” Alright. Maybe it was a little dangerous.

“They’re not normal around it. Why we’re not going back to the coast. It attracts trouble.” The flock of sirens chasing Jaskier into the rocks. Yanking and clawing at him. He wouldn't risk that again.

“You sure that’s not just me?”

He huffed a laugh. “Different kind of trouble.”

He exhaled. “Suppose so. So if not the coast then where are we headed?”

He shrugged. “Not west.” Back the way he’d came. They'd hit the blue mountains. He ran his fingers through his hair. It caught on a snag. Grumbled.

Jaskier rolled his head back to face him. “Oh did I leave the job half done? How _ever_ will you manage?”

He tossed the brush at his head. Jaskier covered his face and it dropped into the water. “Rude.”

“Finish it.” He turned back around. Shrugged a shoulder dismissively. “Or don’t. You’re the one who likes braiding it.”

“Ungrateful bastard.” His shins pressed back into his sides. Brush resuming its gentle strokes. “Sorry.”

“Hm?” 

“For the griffins and necrophages.”

“Don’t care. Apologize for your loose tongue instead. Gets us in more trouble.”

“Never.” He whispered dramatically. “My silver tongue is a gift from the gods!”

“Gods aren’t real.”

“No.” He agreed. “They’re not. But that doesn’t change the fact I’m a gift.”

Jaskiers fingers carded through his hair. Checking for any last knots before they started weaving sections of his hair together in the convoluted braids Jaskier adored.

_Yes. You certainly are._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hm. Well if I don't stumble into any important scenes that need to go next I think were doing a meet the family section next. Man that parts going to be long and messy.   
> Love yall!


	11. Ruined Letters

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Minor warning I suppose for a child blaming themselves for their parents marriage failing? Idk. Love yall.

“Early to be calling it a night.” He pointed out sitting down across from Jaskier.

“Giving the poor dear a chance to earn their supper.” He waved dismissively at the youth playing the bar not looking up from the letter he was glowering at.

“Off the floor?” He winced at the poor kid. At least when Jaskier sang nonsense it sounded nice.

“Don’t revile something that’s filled our bellies more than once.” He did not look up.

“Not sure listening to those songs is worth it.”

Jaskier’s frown deepened but he didn’t respond.

He kicked him under the table.

That got him a glare. He smirked. “What, some shit eating noble offering an absurd sum to put you on retainer again?”

“No.” He hid his frown in his hand. Leaning into his elbow. “How long would it take to get to Kerack?’

“Where in?” He tilted to the side to try and read the letter but it was too far crunched up in his hand to read from this side.

“Lettenhove.”

He considered. Answered.

He sighed. “Thought as much. I’ll have to depart in the morning then.”

“Why?” His voice too harsh. But they’d only met back up last week after Jaskier’s sudden decision one morning months ago that he _needed_ to go back the way they’d came for no fucking reason and that – no Geralt should not accompany him actually. Thank you very much.

And now it was almost fall and he was running off again?

They wouldn’t meet up again this year if he left now.

Jaskier was an adult. He was allowed to trapeze off whenever he liked. They had no ties. They’d made no promises.

But it set his teeth on edge. Jaskier leaving over a letter that had him reeking of anxiety and sadness.

“Obligations.”

“Like you don’t ignore those all the time.” He reached out to take the letter from him.

He jerked it out of reach. “Not all of them!” He objected.

“And what’s important enough you’d do something that makes you miserable?” Jaskier chased joy like it was the only thing that mattered. A trait that emptied his coin pouch faster than even he could draw it in.

Which was why _he_ carried the purse.

He grumbled. “Buy me a beer?”

“Buy it yourself.”

They hadn’t even had a chance for their purses and things to get all scrambled up. It would hardly be any trouble to untangle their things.

_Get used to being alone. That’s the Witchers life._

“Don’t be like that Geralt. If you get married I promise I’ll drop everything and cross the continent to play a wedding march for you.”

“It’s a wedding?”

“My sister’s.” He waved the letter around. Face and scent still foul. “And that’s all you’re getting until you buy me a drink.” He scowled at the bard. “Hurry before he’s kicked out and I spend the rest of the night salvaging this bar’s opinion of the bardic profession.”

He rolled his eyes and order a round for them.

“What’s the story?” He asked as Jaskier drank with a contented sigh.

“My sister’s getting married and has asked me to attend.”

“That isn’t worth a drink.” He told him reaching out to take it back.

He curled around it defensively. “Not my fault you’re a nosy Witcher!”

“If you don’t want to go home then don’t.” He reached over the table for it. Jaskier pushed his face away and held the drink as far away from him as he could. Stealing sips quickly as he tried to shove him back.

“She asked me to come. Wrote me a letter specifically! I won’t say no to that for no reason!”

“Then go. Stop being moody.”

“Moody? Me? You’re the one with his knickers in a twist!” Jaskier shoved him back and he sat back in his seat before anyone could yell at him. “Seriously- what’s got you so upset? You’re not the one who has to sit through hours – Hours I swear! Perhaps even _days_ \- of my family’s poking and prodding. It’s going to be _miserable_.”

_Then don’t go._

Pointless. Stupid. He said he was going and that was that. He’d hmm and haw about it all night and he’d be gone in the morning and he’d be lucky if they met again in the spring.

And that was fine because that’s how their life worked and he should be grateful they found each other as often as they did anyway.

“What- did you miss me Geralt? Are you annoyed my family has called me away when I could be traveling alongside you? Causing you no end of trouble and misery?” He pressed his hand to his forehead dramatically. _Bards._

“No.” He hid his scowl in his drink. But not well enough. Jaskier’s face settled into a mischievous grin.

“You are! You missed me! Oh Geralt you giant sap. You major softie. I shall have to compose a ballad about how the Witcher missed his best friend so much that he became inconsolable when he was called away from his company before the winters chill! The ballad it will make!”

“Don’t.”

Jaskier paused his theatric monologue about the ballad he would compose to glance at him. “I won’t play it but around the fire when you are being particularly difficult have no fear.” His face fell a fraction more. “You’re not cross with me are you?”

His shoulders fell. “No. I’m not.”

It wasn’t Jaskier he was cross with.

Witchers weren’t supposed to feel.

He took another swig. The bard fumbled a cord and Jaskier flinched at the noise it made.

“You were better than that.” At that age. Didn’t bode well for their chances.

“I remember the feeling. Fingers that can’t keep up with the song. They still can’t. Not really.” His eyes tracked the kid. “They still always sound better in my head.”

He couldn’t imagine what they were supposed to sound like then.

“Geralt?” His eyes twitched back over to him as the patrons began throwing food. “The roads to Lettenhove can be quite dangerous this time of year.”

He hm’d non-committally.

“Now I’m just a bard- but I’m certain theirs work along the way and you’ve a horse while I’m on foot should said work cause you delay.”

“Get on with it.”

“You could escort me to the festivities.”

The edge of a smile betrayed him even as he responded, “Witchers must get paid. What are you offering _bard_?”

“Oh no!” His voice raised jokingly coy. “I have no money. Perhaps there is _some other way_ I could repay you?” He fluttered his eyelashes stupidly.

“Pass.”

Jaskier stuck his tongue at him. Leaned back. “A hot bath, a soft bed and as many hot meals as you can tolerate my family for.”

“So one?”

“I won’t deny the possibility.”

He shook his head. Sighed.

“You know I should really be taking ten percent commission of all your jobs given all the free advertising I’ve given you. If anything you owe me a favor.”

“I never asked you to do that.”

“Yes. I’m gracious enough not to make my friends beg for my aid. Unlike someone I know!”

He stood. Hiding his smirk behind the rim of the empty tankard. “Safe travels Jaskier.” He dismissed.

“See you in the morning you dolt!”

The bed in the halfway house between towns wasn’t comfortable. Which was no surprise given there was no one to pay for a better one. At least this place had a halfway house. Especially given the rain.

“I think I prefer your incessant plucking to your pacing bard.” His nose scrunched as Jaskier’s rotten tang passed by again. “We don’t have to go.” He reminded.

If the message had gotten lost. If he’d been under contract. If he’d simply been too far away to make it.

No one could honestly fault him for the restrictions of his profession. Not in good faith at least.

“No. _We_ don’t have to.” Which irked him. “You are welcome to depart whenever you’d like.”

“That’s not what I meant.” He rolled over. Digging through the bag for the shirt he’d torn last week. Chucked it at his head. “Mend that.”

“I’m not your tailor.” He objected collecting the kit anyway. Sitting down on a crudely made chair. Considering the break and how best to mend it.

“And I’m not your launder yet you still refuse to do it yourself.” Jaskier’s tongue poked out of his mouth as he began working. “Don’t sow any flowers into it this time.”

“The smell bothers you far sooner than it bothers me.” His socks always smelled awful. The rest of his clothing got distracting long before Jaskier decided it needed washing. “And just for that you’re getting a field of flowers! I think I worked out a pattern for buttercups!”

“Stop wasting thread.”

“Stop wasting soap.”

He glared at him. Jaskier glanced up a few moments later and stuck his tongue out proper at him.

He shuffled around. Trying to move the lumps in the mattress to a spot that wouldn’t keep him awake all night.

“You must really like your sister.” He tried to imagine an Eskel for Jaskier. He wasn’t particularly successful. “To suffer your family for her.”

“I love all my sisters.”

Oh no. “There’s more than one?”

“Yes Geralt.” He chuckled. Fingers moving deftly. “I have three.”

“I am no longer available to escort you.”

A laugh caught in his throat. “They’re not mini me’s Geralt. Besides they’ll have their hands full with everything that’s going on for certain. You’ll be fine.”

He watched his hands move. His fingers stroking the fabric lightly as he worked. Like he enjoyed the texture. He hoped Jaskier enjoyed the texture. Maybe then he’d do it while he was wearing it. Fingers running over the seams he’d fixed. The small flowers he’d sown into all his clothing. Not that all of them were recognizable as flowers. Embroidery wasn't his specialty. 

“Thinking about your brothers?”

He blinked. “No.” His brow pulled together. “Your parents then? They’re the ones you hate?”

His hands stopped. Blues eyes turned up to him. “I don’t hate them?”

“Fooled me.” He’d never mentioned any of them. He’d thought they’d disowned him or they were dead or. Something worse.

“I don’t.” A crease formed between his eyebrows. He wanted to- that didn’t matter. Jaskier looked back down. Hands restarting. “It’s just. It’s complicated.”

“Five words or less.”

The quiet sound of rain and a needle pulling thread.

“Sometimes love isn’t enough.”

“Unhelpful.”

“You demanded a story in five words or less.”

“Go on then.”

The quiet dragged on. He wondered if it would thunder. Jaskier always got jumpy when it thundered. He could understand that. Crouched. Hands over Jaskiers ears. Jaskier’s hands over his. Hoping it wouldn’t strike them or Roach. Start a blaze. Deafen them.

He could do without lightning.

But they were inside. And if it did. Thunder. Jaskier might cover his ears. He could cover Jaskier’s. Fall asleep to his sleeping heartbeat steady in his ears.

“You can love someone with all your heart and still be terrible for them.”

“Hm.” Jaskier foot tapped out a rhythm on the floor. “They’re bad for you.”

That made sense.

He shook his head. “I’m bad for them.”

“Jaskier-“ he started.

“Geralt don’t try and correct me. You have no context.” He waited. Mouth a thin line. Listening to the shk shk shk of the needle and thread. “My parents were made for each other. And I ruined them. They went from waltzing together every time music played and sleeping in the same bed to my Father sleeping in the west wing and my mother in the east and never speaking a word by the time I left for Oxenfurt.”

“Not your fault their marriage fell apart.”

“You don’t know that.”

“Neither do you. Stop wasting time on hypotheticals.”

“They were _made_ for each other.” He whispered to the cloth.

“Fate’s not enough. Something more is needed.”

“Well I wasn’t the something they needed.”

_You were something I needed. Fate or no._

He didn’t say that. Jaskier could feel what he felt. If he didn’t want it mentioned then he wouldn’t.

Witchers didn’t want.

This. This was already enough.

His face twitched. The faint whiff of blood followed a moment later.

“Enough. I’m going to sleep.” He raised his hand to igni out the candle. Waiting for Jaskier to commit to joining him before plunging them into the grey scaled dark.

“This bed is terrible.” He complained, wiggling into his arms. Burying his head in his chest. “No way I manage to fall asleep.”

 _Liar._ He thought as he focused on his gentle warmth. On the way Jaskier was slowly melding into Jaskier-Geralt-Roach. Letting his contentment sink in to Jaskier until it was just Dandelions and soft humming.

_You ruined me too Jaskier._

_And I don’t regret it at all._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Splitting this section (helpfully denoted as just 'marriage' in my notes) into two parts! Next chapter's going to have some content warnings I'm pretty sure (although it depends on how much our boy opens up. :p) so Here! Have some tension building softness before the ride ahead.
> 
> Also special thanks to Anarchycox and her lovely fic Some People Really Do have Happy Childhoods (https://archiveofourown.org/works/24346045) who inspired me to move away from the 'Jaskier's family is terrible' route. Look it's still going to hurt but! The hurt is here and in the past instead of in the future! Just trust me when I say the other route was :( for sure. And this will also help build another thing- *Excited writer noises*
> 
> Thank you for reading!!!!!!


	12. Home sweet home

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for mentions of stillborn children and abortion (in reference to the Botchling monster). Not in an emotional way or anything but take care of yourself.

Lettenhove wasn’t bad. Bit too close to the coast but Jaskier assured him he’d never seen a siren or harpy when he’d lived here so he supposed it was alright. The logging forests and their roads were easy enough to navigate.

He wondered where the wedding would be. They had to be well off to afford a house with an east and west wing. Or Jaskier was exaggerating as he was want to do.

They could run the logging industry in this town. But Jaskier didn’t know shit about trees. Course that could be willful.

Silk traders. That was still his bet. With Jaskier’s dedication to clothing and keeping up with the trends. His ease navigating nobility and the working class.

The town fell away behind them.

“Jaskier.” He started. Looking back on to town behind them. “Where do you live?”

“On the road.” He cheekily replied. “It’s not much further. I know it’s getting late. But the weddings tomorrow so we can’t waste a night at the inn. Little further Roach. Promise they’ll spoil you rotten.”

The building, two stories and large, set his jaw on edge as Jaskier approached the ornate door.

“Jaskier.” He started. Looking up at the expensive wooden craftsmanship. “Are you a noble?”

He turned slowly back to him. “I could have sworn I mentioned it.”

“You didn’t.”

“Or you weren’t listening.”

“No you definitely didn’t.”

“No you definitely just weren’t listening.”

“Jaskier.”

“Oh right. About that-“

The door opened. “Master Julian. We weren’t sure you’d make it.”

“Dramatic last second arrival! You know me!” The doorman’s eyes glanced at him. “Would you mind sending for the stable hand- is it still Hipolit? – to take care of my companions horse? Thank you. You’re the best Frederik!”

As Frederik moved away he stepped up behind him. Asking his most pressing question first. “Who the fuck is Julian?”

“Well that’s me- again I swear I’ve told you this but-“

“Julian.” A commanding baritone spoke from the top of the dark stained stairs. Jaskier’s spine went taunt. His fingers fidgeted with the sleeve of his buttoned doublet. All the way up to his neck. Like he hated. “You brought a guest.”

He remained solemn. Stern. Did not shift under the lord’s gaze. He would not. The urge to do so did not even come. Unlike when the baker or blacksmith looked at him that same way. Nobility thought they deserved that reaction and that made it enjoyable to deny them it instead.

“I did. And I promised him a hot bath and a bed as reward for delivering me safely. I assume my room is prepared? No need to waste space or the staff’s time – I’m sure they’re dreadfully busy - since I hadn’t the time to send message ahead preparing an extra room-“

“Stop.”

He froze. The rabbit of Jaskier’s heart loud in his ears.

“Your sisters are waiting in Helena’s room. I suggest you do not keep them waiting.”

“I- well let us just put down our things and-“

A stablehand slipped behind him and tried to take Roach’s reins from him He passed on several directions before handing her over.

“Your help will be taken care of Julian.” He sighed.

“Help? Help!” His voice raising in volume and pitch. “He is not some hired hand and I’d bid you take more care with your choice of word Father or I,”

“It’s fine.” He pointed out which only seemed to enrage the bard more as they stepped inside.

Light feet dashed on the floor inside. Far too quick for a servant’s demeanor.

She lunged for Jaskier with a cry of “Julek!”

Jaskier turned and caught her. Unsurprised by the sneak attack. Jaskier was hard to sneak attack, even for him. Her feet swung in the air as he spun her round.

She dragged his beaming face from the hall without further objection.

“So you’re the Witcher.”

“Hm.”

“A white wolf indeed.” He muttered to himself in a voice he was not meant to hear. “Frederik will show you where you’ll be staying.” His eyes flicked over to the man. Recently reentered. “Have a bath and meal sent for him as well.” The lord’s eyes slowly surveyed him. “And one for Julian in the morning. I doubt they’ll let him go before sunrise.”

It seemed he was dismissed. He doubted the room was Jaskier’s. It didn’t smell like him. Nothing in it hinted at more than a guest room. Which was fine.

The leftovers from dinner were good. The bath better. The bed best.

It didn’t smell like Jaskier though.

The moon had long set by the time he woke to Jaskier shuffling in.

“You bribe the staff to tell you where I was?” He yawned. Eyes closed against the harsh candlelight.

“Unnecessary on so many levels dear. How’s the bed?”

“Soft.” Almost unbearably so. No lumps or hard spots or straw poking his side. It was terrible. He wanted to-

It was unbearably soft.

The dresser rattled slightly.

“Don’t be chatty tonight. I’m tired.” He requested. Halfheartedly lifting the covers.

“Won’t be a problem.” The door creaked open.

He sat up. “Where are you going?”

“The gardens.”

“At this hour?”

“No better time than now!”

He stared at Jaskier’s cloaked form in the doorway. “Go in the morning.”

“No.” His voice shaped by a cheeky grin. “But you’re welcome to join me if you scared the roses might maul your _poor defenseless_ bard in the dark.”

“You’re definitely not poor.” He pointed out shoving his boots on hastily.

“I am exactly as rich as I was before we arrived- which is to say often copper-less. None of this money is mine.”

“You’re the eldest son.” The only son based on the paintings he’d seen. So he would have it one day. One day he’d be a Count and have no time or cares for a Witcher and his wanderings.

Jaskier closed the door behind them.

“And still none of it will be mine.” He said with an easy smile. Like that was honestly what he wanted. “Shame the name will likely die with me though. Unless one of my sisters keeps it. Helena isn’t but she’s marrying well so there’s little surprise there.”

“You’ve been disowned?” It didn’t seem like it. They padded down the steps. He followed Jaskier’s. Avoiding one stair, as Jaskier had, that must have creaked.

“No. Not exactly.” He unlocked the door and pushed it just open enough. “It’s a matter of character. My parents have long since accepted mine.”

The gardens were quiet. Some of the flowers were blooming. Jaskier tripped in the darkness and he steadied him with a hand around his bicep. He could pick up the whiff of alcohol on his breath now. Wine. Red.

“What would I do without you?” He beamed, making a kissy face at him.

He let go of his bicep. “Break your nose and die probably.”

“Rude. Rude Witcher.” Jaskier scolded, tapping the tip of his nose with his finger. He snapped his teeth at it to dissuade him from attempting it again. It hadn’t worked yet and his grin did not indicate it had worked this time either.

Jaskier turned and continued his meandering tour of the gardens.

His parents didn’t expect him to inherent. They welcomed him and his guest, even one as odd as him, easy enough. His sisters had written him expressly to come here and demanded his attention all evening. He seemed friends with the staff, from what little he’d seen. The workers who’d drawn him a bath and dinner had been nothing but thrilled to meet _Julian’s Witcher_.

Perhaps he had broken his parents’ marriage. Perhaps his Mother was awful. Perhaps it was just something he hadn’t seen yet.

But the rotten sour had followed them since the letter arrived. Jaskier was not so good at hiding misery or anxiety as he believed.

So when “Why do you hate this place?” slipped out of his mouth around the quiet chirping of the night he could hardly be faulted.

Jaskier’s steps did not falter as he snaked through the hedges. “It’s lonely here.”

That didn’t make sense. Why would he be lonely in a place full of people who cared for him?

He’d missed something. He’d pay more attention. Figure out this puzzle.

It was just something to do.

Jaskier crouched in front of a rose bush. Took a leaf between his fingers and stroked it with his thumb.

“Not going to elaborate?” He asked.

“You told me not to be chatty.”   
"Like you ever listen."

"Says the man whose tuned out every time I introduced myself as _Julian Alfred Pankratz_."

"You said your name was Jaskier."

"It is." Between the faint light of the cloudy sky and long shadows of the hedges Jaskier’s eyes were gently grey. He closed them and kissed one of the white petals as one might a sleeping babe.

He let the rose go and stood. Pulling the cloak tighter against the autumn chill.

He tried to remember that rose bush in the dark garden before following after.

“Geralt?” Jaskier’s voice drifted back to him. Waiting to continue on until they were side by side. Heading back in the direction of the mansion. “How are botchlings made?”

Jaskier did not wrap himself around his arm to leach his heat as he often did. Instead shivering as they slowly walked forward in the evening’s darkness.

He did not allow himself disappointment at that. Answering “They’re formed from improperly buried unwanted stillborn fetuses or occasionally very young infants.”

“Unwanted by who?”

He shrugged. “The mother I suppose.”

“Do abortions count then? Seems like they ought to be a bigger problem if so.”

“Not normally. Most of them are done too early. And even then cursed ones don’t spring up naturally. Plenty of chaos and bad will has to be around.” His eyes flicked over watching Jaskier mutter chaos to himself. “Why the sudden interest? They don’t exactly make for good songs.” They were ugly and monstrous in a way the words ugly and monstrous did not capture.

“I’ll be the judge of that!” He protested, hands spread wide before rapidly returning to his armpits. His eyes fell. “Just thinking about a song. That’s all.”

“Shitty song.”

“No.” He whispered to the soft grass under their boots. “I’m sure it would have been great.”

Jaskier opened a back door and ushered him in. He glanced around, checking if they’d awoken any of the staff on accident.

The door clicked closed and a cold hand brushed his hair. “The braid fell out."

He yanked back. “Get those ice blocks you call hands away from me!” He hissed.

Jaskier grinned and raised them menacingly.

He turned and dashed for the bedroom. Somewhat blindly moving through the halls as Jaskier’s soft feet chased after him.

“You missed my room!” He laughed from behind him. Catching his breath next to a door that might have been his room. They all looked terribly similar.

Jaskier wiggled his hands threateningly as he approached. He grabbed them both in one hand with a scowl so Jaskier couldn’t attack him with them. He needed gloves or he would lose them to frostbite and his terrible circulation one of these days. Opened the door with the other. Jaskier’s eyes glittered up at him.

He dropped his chilled hands. Stomping over to the bed.

Jaskier collided with his back a moment later. Wrapping his arms around his neck. Trying to slip his hands under the fabric of his shirt.

He threw him onto the bed before he could. Rolling laughter escaped Jaskier as he bounced to a stop on the bed.

He sat on the edge and pulled his boots off. Jaskier’s eyes warming his back.

“Thank you for coming.”

“Free food’s free food. Take your shoes off.”

He sighed and started to. “You don’t have to come to the ceremony but I’ll insist you join me for the reception.” He dropped the shoes off the side of the bed.

“Stockings too.” Because those stunk the worst.

Jaskier chucked them at his head and he threw them to the far corner of the room.

“Maids are going to find that entertaining.”

“If they smell it they’ll know exactly why it’s over there.”

“Cruel.” He slipped from his shirt and trousers until all that remained was his customary braes and burrowed under the covers.

He joined him a few moments later. Hissing as Jaskier’s cold hands pressed against his chest.

One skated up. Carding through his hair.

The motion was like the bed. Too soft. It hurt, how soft it was.

He focused on the chill instead.

“Let me braid it again in the morning.”

“Why?”

Jaskier shifted. One leg wrapping around his. His head tucked against his arm. The hair of Jaskier’s hirsute chest tickling his side. “Proof.”

“Of what?”

The smell of dandelions did not come. Nor did an answer beyond the sleepy in and out of his breathing.

That was fine. He’d figure it out eventually.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Why'd this section take So long to write? Cause I Tried to have a direct conversation and much like the last 3 times i tried to do that it just wouldn't take. So I rewrote this today. Hopefully the next section comes easier! More family fun time! Thank you for sticking with me!

**Author's Note:**

> Hey! Thanks for giving this fic a shot. I've been working on this fic since... uh i got into the witcher? But it kept getting out of hand and I kept changing the Jaskier I was using as i got to know him better- So i'm just committing to this version now so i can actually finish this fic eventually! Hope you enjoy.


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